Two squirrels, both alike in dignity,
in the Great Black Swamp, where we lay our scene,
from innate squirr’liness run up two trees
in one synchronic rush ‘cross lawny green.
What antic maze, more mad than mating fit,
posses’t the sciurids wild to wildly roam
through street and yard in simultaneous snit
and so adorn the trees of neighbr’ing homes?
Was it the speeding cyclist drove them mad?
The SUVs that hulked along the curb?
Or bright October air that made them glad
until their squirr’ly brains became disturbed?
Damn if I know. I just pedall’d past
as brace of squirrels stood arbor-bound, aghast.
Actually, I think it was walnut intoxication. All the squirrels in town have been acting crazy lately, and the many black-walnut trees in town have been dropping ripe walnuts for weeks so, on the post-hoc-propter-hoc principle that never fails, I conclude the two things have something to do with each other. But none of that fit the meter. I expect Shakespeare had the same sort of problem.