The Futility of Small Battles

Puppy barked and whimpered, the tree remained still.  

The squirrel, a masked thief, cleverly ducked away.  

Behind a crooked branch, it grinned invisibly,  

taunting with rustling leaves and mocking speed.  

Puppy leapt high, higher, and fell harder,  

clumsy as a handshake interrupted by doubt.  

The ground didn’t forgive, cradling his back,  

while paws sprawled upward, the sky kept quiet.  

Below, the squirrel zipped down like a blur,  

a secret daredevil masked in its own resolve.  

It raced the fence, the triumph stuck in its tail,  

and left Puppy fumbling with shadows of triumph.  

Tongue dragging through clumps of backyard defeat,  

he scratched at the door as surrender’s anthem.  

Inside, a dish of water was waiting, as always,  

a nap to soothe his chest, deflated but resolute.