I watched a squirrel, fat for winter, dig in the garden for who knows what. The squirrel wasn’t welcome, but invited itself to this place I’ve called my own. Its ancestors might say the same of me, for one day generations ago there was a stand of trees, the next day someone laid a foundation and a house rose where the maples and oaks once stood and squirrels foraged in the wood. Who encroached on who?
December cold and the bird feeders are filled once again. We’re told to hold off on filling them until the bears hibernate, lest they’re drawn to the neighborhood seeking food. The bears are always here, friend, but why invite trouble? I let the feeders run out and kept them empty until the 5th of December. But trouble arrived anyway–not as bears, mind you, but squirrels. They quickly got the memo that the buffet was open once again.
The air is cold, reminding me of things left undone in the yard while I was busy doing other things. The list is longer than I’d like it to be, but I dream of escaping to faraway places anyway. Best to turn my attention back towards the nest. The squirrels are boldly circling back, ever closer, thinking, “If he’s not going to use it, we’ll grab it back for ourselves.”
Fat squirrel digs for food
Is the garden his or mine?
Today, the rodent