Consider the Squirrels

They toil a lot. In the morning waves, they are a gray foam.

Like words. Words do not have a one to one correspondence to our observed world. Never have, never will. Hence Western philosophy.

The squirrel a hawk grabbed, the squirrel that was dropped, or fought free, has a white oval on its side, and for a while a red eye within this shape.

Seeing him we celebrate. He has a narrative. Though we cannot number his fleas, note the dissymmetry of his nostrils, or file his form, we love him. Could he know, he would fear us more than he does some birds. We rejoice in his distance, whatever freedom is.

Are words a similar violence? Must our appreciation of the particular, be built on a scar?

Is all individuality bubbles in a tide? ....