Definitely a rodent, probably
a squirrel, the mechanic told me
of the nest he removed
from the engine compartment.
Huge, he said, complete
with two lemons and a tangerine,
thus solving two mysteries at once—
the fruit that slipped out
of my pocket when I dashed
through a downpour, and after,
the wild scent my car had taken on.
I imagine that squirrel, every night climbing
up through the wheel well, balancing
along some hose to the warmth
of the engine block.
I’m incapable of condemning
it, and really I hardly think
of a squirrel as a rodent,
more as a fact of life, a warrior
of adversity with a full twitchy tail,
silver backed, ferocious
in its scolding. I see him
on the high branches
of the live oak, leaping
with a trust unknown
to my flesh and blood,
and think of the competition
and danger—jays, wood rats, bobcats,
not to mention the coyotes
that howl and yip in heated frenzies—
how that squirrel returns
to the warmth, to the steel safety
surrounding him, while the night
spins on in its violent beauty.