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<title>The squirrel | Autocento of the breakfast table</title>
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<h1 class="title">The squirrel</h1>
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<p>He is so full in himself:<br />how far down the branch to run,<br />how long to jump, when to grab the air<br />and catch in it and turn, and land on branch<br />so gracefully it’s like dying, alone<br />and warm in a bed next to a summer window<br />and the <a href="mountain.html">birds singing</a>. And on that branch there<br />is the squirrel dancing among the branches<br />and you think <em>What if he fell?</em> but he won’t<br />because he’s a squirrel and that’s what<br />they do, <a href="movingsideways.html">dance</a> and never fall. It was erased<br />long ago from the squirrel, even<br />the possibility of falling was erased<br />from his being by the slow inexorable evolution<br />of squirrels, that is why all squirrels<br />are so full in themselves, full in who they are.</p>
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