Squirrel Secrets (Part I)

Every morning, if you time it right, just as the sun clears the immaculate hedges, you will see the squirrel. He's dark brown, wiry and trim, a speedster in a world of fat cats. He not so much runs, as sprints with undulation, along the fenceline. He is a little cheetah of the suburban savannah, that low-rise edge of the concrete jungle.

I wonder what he is running from. I wonder where he is running to. Perhaps he is running for the love of it. Perhaps he is a she.

The other day, I was awestruck by a particularly scintillating run. The squirrel flowed like muddy quicksilver up and down several trees. I had no idea (as usual) what he was looking for. Or she.

I don't know what squirrel families are like, but one sunny afternoon, in broiling heat, I saw the squirrel doing his run (or her run) this time, part of the road was included. And there were two smaller squirrels following close behind, doing the same route, but with a little less skill, a more tentative approach.

It was squirrel school, and I was privileged to be able to watch. And in the bright heat of the late day, I saw that their fur tinted red. It was like watching streaks of camouflaged fire zip through my quiet world.