The oak is in its mast year again.

The squirrels know: they’ve returned
to the familiar tree after years away,
somehow—feuding over the acorn
fuel still forming high above the grass.
Their complaints, the tree never
hears. They quarrel in bright barks—
mine-o, thine-o, you can’t have it
and bristle up and down its branches,
small, and back only for this: potential 
heavy in the green and swaying canopy.