I don’t know how you got your name,
little green ball of fuzz,
but I like imagining you
howling at the moon
as you cling to the trunk
of a giant sequoia.
How you might let go,
drop to the ground and lope
through the understory
for a midnight prowl.
If you want, you may
have my throat.
Go ahead. Rip and tear.
Eviscerate.
Drain my blood.
Small recompense
for the chainsaw, the clearcut,
your ancient home
now a sundeck,
dance floor, bowling alley.