A gray squirrel, alert but not afraid,
Scratches, making marks not quite script
On yellow leaves with paws not quite hands,
So the attempt to get through the leaves
To something in the grass or beneath it
Cannot be called a manuscript, but
The clear and industrious sound from
Thick waxy leaves blown off by high winds
(Leaving the buds of the magnolia defenseless
But likely to survive sufficiently even
After all the squirrels eat their fill,
With the browning leaves mulching the lawn
For at least a few November days) crackling
Under squirrel paws like an overplayed
And primitive form of recording; there
May be some kind of message underneath
The opaque white noise which I cannot translate.