August 9, 2012
Over the burrow's dirt clod edge I could see the ears and crown of the squirrel's head emerge. The tips of his dun colored hair caught the morning light and gave the hunt, my prolonged crouching and waiting, an artistic esthetic. The corn tortillas from earlier settled low in my gut and strained my ability to concentrate. The prey was nervous, afraid to venture out. It was probably Rocky, the man from the bush below. I could hear his rustling and morning muttering. He spoke incessantly while awake which added to the sonic chaos of the highway in the distance.