Small Skeletons by Kristin Garth

Small Skeletons 

Stare into eyes of shivering squirrel on 

wrong side of glass, neighbor’s patio doors. 

As bay encroaches upon what was lawn,

small skeletons ponder newly formed shores. 

Before this storm, you feared the man inside 

who roamed the woods with you, these exact words 

same time, same walk , “we keep meeting like this,

people will talk.”  When the flooding occurred,

bay entered unannounced, scurried to his 

elevated two-story house.  While you stare 

in the eye of a shivering squirrel, hear 

a spouse explain the disappearance there 

inside of his cerebellum, a hurricane cleared

away trees of knowledge, every name. 

Small skeletons suffer these storms the same.