Buckets of
acorns sit at the base of old giant oaks,
Annual
collections quantifiably rich and deep,
I dip into
them with my hands,
Let the
green droplets and their brown caps
Sift through
my fingers like gold coins,
Dump them
into pig feeders and
Watch the
rooting snouts feast on bitter seeds
While I
stand outside of the fence,
Where walnuts
and hickory nuts scatter at my feet,
Fewer in
number, cloaked in tough skins and thick shells,
I break them
with a hammer to dig out their meat
To feed
myself.
Squirrels
hoard what they can carry.
Bound to
seasonal tides, we share ritual meals,
Leave behind
enough to reseed and grow,
Wait out the
lean months,
Then gather together
for another harvest moon
Beneath the
oak, walnut, and hickory trees.
© cmheuer,
September, 2016
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