Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun

Today is a sad day. As I pulled into the parking lot by my apartment, I saw a terrible sight. On the ground lay a squirrel. My first thought was, "Oh no! It's Farley!" Of course, I realize that there are many squirrels around here, and it could be any squirrel.
Because he looked quite . . . intact, I decided I should get a closer look, fearing the worst. As I walked closer, I thought that he looked very peaceful -- He was not squashed or anything; he was lying there, eyes open. He just had a simple little trickle of blood coming out of his nose. Other than that, he looked like he was sleeping. It reminded me of when someone dies in a movie. I thought, "Well maybe he was not hit by a car. Maybe he had cancer, but he could not quite make it back to his nest."
Anyway, he sure looked like Farley -- he even had the same toes that I had commented on in a previous post. Farley was a small squirrel, as was this empty vessel of a once-noble spirit.

But I did not want to jump to any conclusions right away.

So all day long, I kept waiting for Farley to visit the buffet that is my patio. But I waited and waited. He has never gone a day without a visit before. So my mind has reached the logical conclusion.


Farley is gone.

I suppose there is still some hope, but I am beginning to accept the truth.


Here is an appropriate poem, from W.H. Auden:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

We hardly knew you, little buddy.