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An Indian palm squirrel
Goes vocal by singing a
Song, an incessant musical
Chip, chip, chip,
Punctuating the October morn,
That stops a kid,
Playing with her invisible friend,
In a flat barred from outside,
And makes her look up,
The solitary child, empty home,
To trace the source of the
Sweet sound, flowing in series,
Somewhere up in a tree
Kissing the balcony of the
Lonely house,
Enthralled,
The kid smiles,
Sees the gliding squirrel,
On the tree of the compound,
And waves back at the creature,
With arched back and a furry
Tail,
Swiftly racing up and down.
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