Pity those humans that build on cliffs in California homes don’t wat h squirrels,
Today in Quasqueton, Iowa the strange Fifty miles per hour winds playing havoc with the tree top home’s of little grey and brown Iowan’s,
From my office bedroom I watch,
A squirrels crib tucked enveloped on a tight little groove secure on the bosom of a black walnut,
It seem odd there’s just one brave little one built that I can view,
That squirrels vista is supreme,
They scurry and hunt and gathered reading for another strenuous Iowa winter made worse by Global Warming.
Val's Whitewolf Books 