I hear the astonished calls
of the chipmunk,
spot him scurrying
amid the abundance.
It’s a mast year for the silver maple,
which in recent days, aided by the wind,
let loose its green seed kernels—
what we as children called helicopters.
The tan blades crashed flat on the driveway,
faced upright in the overgrown lawn,
and nestled within the gutters and downspouts
in a bounty never seen before.
I suspect the chipmunk is overwhelmed—
too much to collect and store before it goes bad—
the way we feel about the zucchini exploding
when we go away for a night.