Rodent Rodeo

He springs from the chute, like a shot,
gallops like a barrel horse toward the knothole,
canters to the west branch, where he scrambles
into the turn. The bushy tree rat soon emerges,
weaving over, and under, and around,
loping to the straightaway, his feet barely touch.
Oblivious to gravity, he dives fearlessly down
the south slope, and leaps to the ground,
passes the corn cob bait - and with black-oil seeds
beckoning - he makes a final dash to the bird feeder.
He shimmies, undeterred now, up the greased pole,
slathered with Crisco, steps nimbly over the baffle,
installed to prevent such pesky raiders, and glides
to the finish line. The cheeky rodent swishes
his tail, like a victory wave, munches seeds
in tiny paw hands, claims his rodeo prize.
I never saw him break a sweat. Then, cross-my-heart,
hope-to-die - I swear, the little buckaroo winked at me,
as I hung up the dishtowel.