I feel the cold crispness of winter
inside my nose.
Up above, the low hung clouds
reflect the pinkish, orange light
from a hundred street lamps,
marking the boundary way
of the street.
Cars speed by, swirling wind,
about me.
The warmth of my breath
puffs billowy, rhythmically,
as I exhale.
The pounding of my feet,
and occasional dog barking
at my passing, are the only
sounds I hear.
I try not think of the
distant point I'm running to
for if I look and see, it might distract me
from the concentration, that I need,
to attain by goal,
to finish.

I am a simple man
with a complexed mind.
I write these words
to enable me
to cope with life's
reality and to deal
with this emotion,
deep inside, that
is worried by the
slow decline of
someone close to me,
who no longer
can use reason
or logic, to think.
I love this elderly
child, I see
is now a dependent
on our family and me.

For once in a lifetime
Of memory filled days.
There comes a moment,
Emerging from the haze,
Of all the stored visions
And in many ways,
Will always be there
Until the end of life's phase.

Here I am, a Native Son,
Resisting the invasion that has begun.
I am small and shades of brown.
Now there are some Greys in town.
I run along the fence, so quickly,
Much faster than in a tree.
My name is Walter Earle,
I am a Native Washington Squirrel,
Not a Chipmunk, I must say
But a Native Squirrel, every day.
The invasion came, years ago.
Not sure how, but they did show.
Grey Squirrels, coming from the East,
Eating our food; it was a feast.
I fight very hard for specie survival
Against the Grey, my arch rival.
Who will win, that's hard to say,
But I know that I'm here to stay.