My Wife Goes to Battle

My wife goes to battle against the squirrels

again this year, as she does every year.

“Number 26,” she proclaims, as she rounds them up,

one squirrel at a time into little cages,

and transports them 10-12 miles down the road, exiled

far enough away, yet still near food and water, habitable land, 

left in the company of other refugees she’s rounded up

and relocated, for she wishes them no harm.

Yet, she knows the damage a lone squirrel can do

inside an empty camp, the chewing, the mess made,

their ability to enter the smallest hole

when no one is about, escaping through that same

hole at the sound of us returning; so

she has me scouring the eaves and far reaches of the attic

and floorboards to fill the smallest of holes, replacing worn

boards, “just in case.” I am the only other soldier

in her campaign, drafted, conscripted, enlisting

for my own peace of mind, just following orders.

Though, only once have I ever seen a squirrel in our camp,

and he too scared to stay, to settle in,

evoking his squatters’ right alongside us living there.

Still, I hear that squirrels removed will return

to nests and home, territorial, some internal sense,

but good solder that I am, unquestioning,

I load him into the car and take him down the road

to begin his new life, or his long journey back,

back to camp to be proclaimed, “number 27.”