A Squirrel’s Journey
He scurries up the tree, paws treading on the rises of craggy bark like a spider traversing its web. His nose dips into a crevice and fills with the aroma of vanilla and butterscotch. Fragments give way beneath his feet, powering forward, halting instantly, advancing hurriedly, he makes his way.
His tufted ears are alert to the symphony around him. Wind sweeps down the canyon and whistles through the pine needles above, a woodpecker knocks for a meal at a nearby tree, a raven caws from a canyon ledge, small stones tumble along shear sandstone cliffs. Again he stops. tilts his head, and captures each movement of the forest’s sonata.
Pinecones hang from a limb above; each filled with seeded nooks, stored sustenance for the days ahead. Scores of needles, most green others yellow, orange and brown, stand rigid along the branches as if they were sentries from different armies marching-in-place. A beetle inches along the trunk, examining entry points, seeking a domicile.
He sits within the crown beholding the expanse before him as it reaches out in two directions. Where the sun will set, he sees the narrow, gray walls dovetail into a wide meadow of grasses, a dry creek-bed bisects the pasture, a trail zigzags across the plain and disappears into the forest beyond. He turns his head to where the sun has risen and gazes at the plush vegetation flowing through the escarpment like a green river, a current of oak leaves and juniper needles gently swirling in the wind.
He rests now. Balanced effortlessly upon his perch, he absorbs the warm sunshine as it filters through the slender clusters of needles. He bows his head, his eyes lock briefly with mine, acknowledge my presence, and then look away. Safe and secure, he rests.