In the depths of winter, P’Shaman was out of food.
He hopped out to a farm in search of something good.
He went into a barn and found a metal bin.
It smelled like grain with something else mixed in.

Not what he wanted, but it would have to do.
The more he hesitated, the more his hunger grew.
He climbed up the bin and saw the grain was wheat.
He jumped down on the pile and began to eat.

But the air was thick with dust – fungus from the grain.
It made him hack and cough and entered in his brain.
He knew he must escape, but the metal made him slip.
The edge was far away; he could not get a grip.

He knew that he must rise above his circumstance.
He knew that he must get away if he would have a chance.
He grew dizzy; he grew faint and felt he might pass out,
But a vision of his mother caused him to come about.

She told him that, when you are in your deepest despair,
you must turn within and listen to the voice you find there.

Now he heard the voice of two-legs, come to dump the bin.
Two-legs tipped the contents out, but, when he looked within,
he said, “Hey, there’s a squirrel,” and got his shotgun out.
P’Shaman roused himself and ran, and two-legs gave a shout.

P’Shaman was running when he heard a mighty blast;
pellets whistled near his ear as they came rushing past.
His safety lay straight ahead if he could reach the trail,
but then he felt a painful blow to his eye and tail.

His tail was blown away; his eye began to bleed.
He screamed in agony but ran toward the trees.
P’Shaman kept on running, leaving two-legs far behind.
He stopped to see where he was, but he was partly blind.

He needed rest; he needed help; he lay down on the ground.
He felt the pain in his body; he felt the world spin around.
Until Robin brought an acorn; Rabbi brought him seed.
Brother Chip staunched his wounds, and then he ceased to bleed.

So his story wasn’t over; he had much more to give.
Sometimes others sought his guidance in how they should live.
Some find him cranky; others don’t like his smell,
but if you seek his advice, this is what he’ll tell.

The sun is your friend; each tree is your guard.
Let no dark hand quench the light of hope in your heart.
Don’t let outside voices of fear find an echo in you.
Heed no words of doubt in what you know to be true.

Though he is a squirrel, I still gotta say,
That he and I share certain things in particular ways.
P’Shaman and I are both grumpy and grey;
Though our wounds are very different, we are pretty much the same.