true masters are seldom recognized
they work their magic anonymously,
shunning the gallery - garnering no acclaim
in respectful silence, i watch from a distance,
a guest uninvited, but a guest nonetheless
alone in the church courtyard
he digs with tiny hands
parting the grass like Figaro,
nervously glancing over hunched shoulders
gently lowering his treasure -
the Blackbeard of St. Elizabeth's,
furtive, suspicious (I hold my breath)
quickly filling the hole,
he arranges the sod meticulously
leaving no evidence, retracing his steps
he stops, tilting his head
shifty eyes poring over
the microscopic details
he stops,
and pats the earth with a flourish
signing the canvas, his tail
trails behind like a scarf in the breeze
portrait of the artist as a young squirrel
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