Now, at the return of light after the long, darkest night

I crawl down the bark of the oak trunk

ahead of my three den mates from our nest of leaves.

*

Juncos sing as dawn approaches while we uncover acorns.

Finches chatter as we chase one another up a pole, along wires

to rooftops, leap along the claws of dying ash trees.

Over the shingles we race to the honey locust

as the man in his den stares.

*

It’s never dark in the city, but our cousins, the fat

fox squirrels, sleep in an unlit forest, without humans,

on high, thick beech or hickory boughs under stars and moon light.

Does the man in the house ever play? He stays in his nest a lot.

*

This morning the stag suddenly appears as we gnaw our white oak seeds.

He walks from the unseen, squats on his haunches and waves us to join.

Arms and legs manlike, but furry as ours, antlers sturdy and wide.

Green leaves and acorns cover his face, hang from his crown.

*

Today is his birthday, born through the darkest of long nights,

as our land tilts northward and light returns.

*

We pick the seeds from his face, he shares wealth and passionate fertility.

He shows us how Stonehenge rises like a mushroom

from wisdom beneath the plain

as Orpheus plays a melody on his lyre, for Cernunnos, for Jesus.