The walnut limb outside my study sprang
as violently as a trampoline,
when warring squirrels landed there and sang
their bicker, chittering alarms between
the balding branch and soaring central bole.
Then up that trunk and down they loudly chased,
until the one in front lost his control,
outran his grip, and fell the way he faced.

The victor then observed the scene below:
the crinum motionless, the ivy still.
And twice as he went down that tree to know
his rival’s answer to his dashing skill,
he stretched his forepaws out, as if to say,
“This tree is mine. I win. Now go away.”