You see me, mid-arch.
gossiper, from pigeon to shrew.
giggling at yet
another girl in ombre tresses,
jaywalking across the melting ice
bloomers, the shade of apples
and a dress like black licorice.
I wonder if she likes pecans.
I myself like peanuts.
He is something else.
stalker, from branch to sapling.
shivering at last
in maniacal schemes,
pranking upon a child’s joy
bubbles, a tint of blue
and a snarky pop! as possums play dead.
Critters who live in rotting trunks
shouldn’t throw rancid pecans.