We are chipmunks, or we would be were we wiser,
dashing hither dither darting till we die.
We race telling stories none of us remember
how often they were told or when or why.
The wind stirs leaves we fancy are emotions.
A truth on Monday Tuesday is a lie.
We learn sharp nostalgia when we leave the nest
then forget that too that way we do the rest.

dashing it all