TRUST
to a stranger. Cold rain
battering on the tin roof.
Between you and me
some crumbs on dry cement.
The little squirrel eats
with its bean-bright eyes
wide open, holding
the morsel with front paws
in the most grateful way,
hair standing up on its tail.
I know this trust is fragile.
My little guest turns this way and that
measuring the distance
from the bread breaker. Four,
three, two feet . . .
You must have seen what’s in my eyes.
I know the trust between us
won’t last too long. Fear
seems to have the upper hand as always.
Relax, buddy! I am not here to hurt you!
I am not even trying to touch you!
Let’s recognize each other on equal terms!
I caress you with my eyes! I can do that now
since we are so close. I can feel your
heart dancing inside that little soft chest.
I can hear the wind blow in your moistened
nostrils and your rain-soaked fur.
I can almost hear you swallow.
The beauty of trust between two
unlikely reconciled creatures
is the quick splashes of rain drops
hitting the surface of bamboo leaves.
Visible, and yet invisible.
It is there, and it is not there.
Hunger. Fear. Trust. Cold
rain. Man. Animal.
:: Z. Z., Spring Festival