On a late summer evening, as August brings mottled decay down the mountain, a squirrel becomes fixated on the stars. To him they look like icy nuts hanging just past the horizon, so he chases them from branch to branch, confused that the “fairy nut-trees” keep moving away. Looking down, he sees a handful of those same bright nuts reflected in a mountain pool and dives in. He drowns in the silent water while the reflected stars tremble above him like an unheard poem.
The mood is dreamily bittersweet, part fable and part quiet tragedy. The speaker seems wryly sympathetic toward the squirrel: his hunger and hope feel real, but the prize is only light on water. The night is sensual and indifferent, leaving a soft sadness about desire chasing an illusion.