Snap and crackle of pairs of squirrels—gray-black and pale
in the middens of dying leaves before the ravine
that separate North Portal from Portal Street
is like the crackle and pop of the breakfast cereal
that dazzled a generation on TV,
though it was nothing special on the spoon;
and the news that a TV appearance
by your favorite spangled pop star was lip-synched
may vary in its importance or disappointment
depending on whether there is independent
evidence she can carry a tune.
As for the discontent in the silhouettes
of larches and beeches, trees that treat their lawns
as audiences for the prosperity
of those who lived there or live there today—
ask them what joy would replace
the joys they appear to erase.
Ask them how to imagine pulling up roots
where they have, or could have had, a chance to stay.