Persimmons hang like orange Christmas spheres
and tantalize this squirrel in the yard.
She climbs and stretches so her chest appears,
and bites the fruit that is no longer hard
the way it was two weeks ago. On guard
and geared for predators, I take a shot
behind my window glass, and she is not
aware of me, absorbed in sucking juice
and chewing flesh like sour apricot,
that’s ripening to hint of maple mousse.

(Dizain)