On top the tree, the child lies

Acorns and leaves hidden

Beneath his rucksack.

Whistle a tune

No one can hear.

Lowering himself to a branch

Below

Bruised skin

Is his reward.

Something within his rucksack falls

Klutzing

Tripping

Clotting

Down to the forest floor.

The boy descends

The birds fly

Singing,

They soar and sweep

Having no masters to keep them

At bay

Wings flap over

A bustling fair.

Little children play.

The air littered with candy and grime.

There is no fair in the forest

But the boy can hear them

Their laughter pierces his ears

Like an acorn being snapped

By narrow teeth.

On his back, the boy lies

It aches.

The bark does not help.

A squirrel makes him into

A friend.

An acorn is slaughtered

By narrow teeth.

Its eyes are beady

His eyes are blue

Both wild things of nature

One who belongs

One who invades.

But who is who?

It is night

His eyes are sore.

Into the branches, he sinks.

Legacy is nothing

Blood is brittle

Ages become older and

The boy grows.

He slides down the tree

Foregoing safety and common sense

Smooth skin, wrinkled by

Harsh maple.

His feet grace the plush, grass floor.

The squirrel, a friend,

Turns into a fiend

And bites the man’s neck

With his narrow teeth.