Red Squirrel, Red Squirrel Shake your Bushy Tail
Now stop tormenting the other animals
Days, weeks passing by, witnessing the tormenting of furry friends — greys, and hoppers alike. Startled by human presence, coffee clutch on mornings deck — little red knows I am on to her shenanigans. Leaving a skid mark longer than a squealing rubber tire on concrete jungles floor, not knowing whether to come or go, getting out of dodge — onward she goes.
We will be having a sit down you and I
crucial conversation mono y mono
human to squirrel, leaving nuts at the door.
The time was now, for Smokey Joe and his beholder, sitting quietly upon the bladed bosom of mother’s porch, all around the others watching with attentive eyes, ears perched for what is about to go down. With a rustling of leaves above in maples high-rise at the center stage of confining dog-eared picket lacking white’s luster and shine, intuitively knowing who is thrashing above.
Are you throwing nuts at me?
Come down from there, this very moment
more intrigued by my tone, scared not in the least.
Inch by inch, scurrying from branch to branch, with hopes of a better view — this man planted at the foot of my bed where I love to lay my head. Just a little closer, getting a glimpse, this man unbothered by twigs thwarted at his bald melon, scratching the dome — “what does he want from me? I am so little compared to him. I’ll show him whose yard he is in, I think?!” — thinking out loud, little red popping goes the weasel of thought trembling branches echoing, “Loud as could be, that will be my strategy.”
Conversing with self and Smokey Joe, puffing new realities eupnea simultaneity — creating and witnessing the unfolding of skylines and mountain ranges moving upon request, awhile the glaring attention of little red gaining curiosities slaying cats. We are now focusing all on little red, making a dash for the stone at the hedge, base of a trunk.
I’ll yell at him in my native tongue
he won’t know what to do
drat! He speaks my language — he truly is nuts!
Vocals carrying on for a minute or two, then a piddle, more like a puddle pouring off grandfather rock, she went silent, deafening beats of her jittery feet, four shots of espresso minimally as squirrely she may be. She is not amused by no language spoken, inward sounds clattering abound, telepathic message giving and receiving.
Curiouser and curiouser, Alice is her name, perplexed at the humanoid deeply roosting and puffing away, “must get a closer look at this person bold enough to confront me not letting it be.” Tick tock as the head sways side to side, click cluck eyes locking on targeted sight.
I am not moving, little one
not for you or other reds
being asked by other neighboring varmints.
A spokesperson for adjacent clans, even the feathered ones begging access to the hanger which feeds in your absence, pleading their case I am, we are all one and the same. Still disturbed by the Sequoia sitting in seiza awaiting her attention, little red gets within nibbles of an ear, still staring at this nature-loving creature, perturbed in knowing what she is being asked to do.
My babies! My Babies are coming!
I need to protect my babies!
So stay up in the tree, in the nest with your three.
Still uncertain to her receiving word of the giant hawk standing by, pestilence and petulance with a karmic solar flare-up waiting in the air, tension was mounting, stand-off at the ok corral. One way or another, the bunnies shall return, grey squirrel, and rarity of the black squirrel shall make passing through this square. Thou shall let them pass.
I have been watching, with curiosity, a red squirrel tormenting the other animals and birds alike. Chasing the bunnies away, the grey squirrels, and even the birds from the bird feeder hanging from the maple tree.
Little Red visits me every morning but ignores my questions.
Last Tuesday, while sitting under the Maple tree, giving thanks for another lovely day. Playing if you will, creating and re-creating realities with every breath puffing prayerfully.
Red squirrel, aka Little Red, Alice, and names I am not allowed to repeat, began stirring about high above in the treetop. Branch to branch as if irritated by my presence, I smiled at her persistence and annoyance at her failing growls.
Now at ground level, to get a closer look, she scurries back and forth, calming in her breath, up the fence, down the fence. To the rock, back to the fence. Maybe a little closer — making her attempts.
Along the top of the fence, she traveled, turning the corner for a closer look. Now at my earshot, maybe a nibble if she cared to, I could hear her squeak turning into a coo. I had her attention, “I’ll be hanging out here more often if you pester the others with imaginary coffins.”
And just like that, she darted off making raspberry sounds…
I do hope you enjoyed this piece and the imagery was enough for you to be present.
Much gratitude for those who take time to read, ponder and allow the inner workings of self to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and more importantly the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.