The Prize

By J.B. Pierce

Chester lived in a hole in the old oak tree
Where he popped out from time to time to see.

Where he spied the crickets and occasional frog
Who hopped out of the old overgrown log.

He smiled at the robin who splashed in her bath
And the Tom cat who napped by the garden path.

And he peeked further out when an acorn fell
And bounced off the brick on the ivy-vined well.

Would the crow that circled above his tree,
He wondered, espy the nut, the same as he?

Would the honey bee buzzing so perilously high
Decide to alight so close nearby?

Would the owl who hooted her hootey hoo hoo
Swoop down from her perch if she fancied his due?

No, none moved to claim it, this treasure he’d spied,
The gleaming bright finish with the sweet meat inside.

So, he stealthily stole down the side of the tree,
Our Chester, the squirrel, whom the others might see.

Then, the Tom cat stirred and stifled a yawn,
While the frog snatched a bug and hop hopped along.

And the robin continued to shower herself
While the hootey hoos head turned, right and then left.

So, Chester crept closer thru this summertime throng,
While the honey bee danced to the cricket’s song.

And he snatched up the prize that the others had eyed
And scrambled on home where he hid it inside
To save for a feast in the wintery cold
That the imminent season so chillingly foretold.

And as the moon rose leisurely in the nighttime sky,
Chester breathed in a most pleasurable sigh
That he had outwitted all his adversarial foes
And snatched up his prize out from under their nose!

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