i was barely a few months old, when i put teeth on the bark for the first time (105:79) and i shoveled out shavings and i carried in sprigs and twigs (105:80) and i softened my bed with the fallen leaves, as chill of autumn (105:81) peeked amongst the roots. i carved a home in the belly of the beech (105:82) where to sleep when buried were the nuts, acorns, and other (105:83) gifts of the motherly woods

when rain fell and when wind froze the tears of branches (105:84) i gazed from the abyss of my burrow. i watched flocks itinerant (105:85) from the mouth of my drey, and by night i dreamt of slippery liverworts (105:86) on which the martens slipped, as they gave me chase

many days a besotted suitor of acorns is in the forest lonely, and owls (105:87) foxes, martens, snakes, hawks, and many a different insidious predator, many a (105:88) hopeless varlet to hunger them stalk, as if i was served to their world for food. when (105:89) the devils of the grove lay siege to the senescent beech, then the drey is a sibling (105:90) inveigling the lot as the humble nutcracker leaves for the branches

this tree, lived long as it is, has the beard and the bushy brows, like do the (105:91) elders of the clotheds that fitfully stray herewithin. unlike their frost, the whiskers of (105:92) the beech are green and brown, and yellow and green

for that, i name this warren the mossy (105:93) drey,
the home of the squirrel