In spite of myself, my resentment that they are rats with tails, that they lounge in my chaises longues and massage themselves in the rims of my flowered pots, I have been admiring squirrels.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Such looseness; such fearless sense of play. One \u2014 followed by her playmate \u2014 in motion leaps to her sure death from the roof but catches a frail branch, hangs belly-up as the branch dip low with weight until she rights herself, scrapes the bark with her nails \u2014 and darts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lilies of the valley have dropped their sweet white flowers, confetti is scattered around the hawthorn tree, the Dionysian rally of spring is exhausting \u2014 <\/p>\n\n\n\n
but there are the squirrels, defying reason.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Once they\u2019re hanging from a thread, how do they will themselves back?
Do these masters of risk appraise a car tire and decide\u2014 uh uh, not this one, over and over? <\/p>\n\n\n\n
And don\u2019t these tricksters know these are dark times? That destructive forces are overwhelming us? <\/p>\n\n\n\n
And yet they play, play, play. Before our tired eyes, they play, as if their very survival depended on it. If I banished them from the garden, who would remind us to play? <\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
In spite of myself, my resentment that they are rats with tails, that they lounge in my chaises longues and massage themselves in the rims of my flowered pots, I have been admiring squirrels. Such looseness; such fearless sense of … Continue reading