almost form circles. He darts, looks around,
runs forward to some shiny thing he's found,
bats it aside bored instantly. We fail
to guess where he goes next, straight up a tree
a single run, or underneath a bush,
and are not sure, when in a sudden rush,
he or another saunters trustingly
right past our feet, if this is the same one.
There are so many of them here at play
on what may be the autumn's last fine day.
They're working hard and what may look like fun
is finding, hiding food, or snatching at
summer's last insects to be stored as fat.