There's a little squirrel dancing on the telephone 
wire. Were he a human boy, you'd just watch him though 
you'd know he'd retire in a quick trip and plummet. But 
the squirrel's got some balance. The squirrel's got his 
weight goin' for him. Yeah, the squirrel's got some 
balance up there on that wire. The twitchy squirrel 
knows he's no need for repose, posed on his blue sky 
background. He's not coming back down, and though the 
line he runs sways, he spends all the day in mid-air. 
Why should he care? As a grade-school boy, Trey wished 
he had a superpower. He never could conclude which one, 
and undecided in his final class hour, he would 
daydream away. He'd keep the power a secret; he didn't 
care if it was circumstantial 'cause he'd just keep it 
a secret. No need for him to cause a fuss. It wouldn't 
be planned, but some twitch of his hand would so 
slightly alter the playground and turn it just a bit 
'round, so nobody could tell. When the recess bell 
would ring, they'd empty outside to run in the 
afternoon sun. He'd stop to admire his work, the rest 
of those jerks oblivious to the fact that although 
inexact, Trey had lifted and looped like a ringlet, 
reversing the swingset. In a little while this all will 
be going away, whether tree or stone, velvet or brown 
macrame, every placecloth and tea set. But I've 
relieved my attachment, and now I won't get too 
sentimental since I've relieved my attachment to all 
these things I never really owned. This studio 
apartment is Trey's. I've wasted the day at the window 
watching the squirrels go back and forth like a shot. 
They seem to do that a lot. I wish I had their energy 
and their poise, their speed without noise, their lack 
of unfulfilled dreams, their simple-minded schemes and, 
though the old unsightly wind blows me slightly, some 
kind of guide to upright me.