Monday, September 7, 2015
The whole of it is a morning ritual, a ritual that precedes a coming fall, a ritual that has a beginning, a middle and an end, as if some school bus were coming and they could not afford to miss it. After 15 or 20 minutes, they have disappeared and the Tree of the Hanging Squirrels is once more still.
Do the Japanese maple shoots taste like Pop Tarts to the squirrels? Do the squirrels, when conferring, comment that "it tastes just like chicken?" No matter -- this is their watering hole, their place in which to reinvigorate their energy and exultation: Imagine that! -- hanging upside down from time to time in order to reach out-of-reach sustenance.
A nice day is coming, but I think the squirrels would be there even if the day promised to be nasty.