The Dreams of Tiny Things


The birds outside my window speak
of world domination, the tiny gray sparrows have staked out
my kitchen for the headquarters of their
aggressive, bird-centric movement. They fly
right up to my window so they can look
inside my house, stare into my kitchen
chirp angrily to one another about how wasteful I am
sweeping stray breadcrumbs into the trash
mutter about how things will be different once
I am out of the house.

The squirrels in the yard are in it with the birds,
but they have smaller demands, a smaller scope of conquest.
Today, their view of domination concerns taking over
only a couple of houses, or maybe even a couple of square blocks
of old, crumbling, Depression-era residences. They scamper up
to my basement window, put tiny brown paws
against the glass, stare in at me working, take stock
of all the little cubby holes and drawers stuffed with loose paper
that would be better suited for building nests
raising pink, hairless babies, and hiding out
against the long winter ahead.