Familiar Voices

The hills are alive with the
flash of small furry creatures
in action; black, in reflection
of the forest of tree trunks
darkly gleaming after freezing
rain; grey, refracting the dense
pewter of the winter sky, and
rufous, resembling the pine
needle-strewn trails they
excitedly converge upon.

This shortest day of the year,
calendar onset of the Winter
Solstice, demands they make the
most this shortest day of the year,
of scant daylight hours and frigid
snowy-filled weather yet to come.
And they, hearing familiar voices,
respond with alacrity to quotidian
opportunity carried along for
dispersal in predetermined cache
spots of select, delectable peanuts.