Displaced

No day passes now without a visit by squirrels who rustle the drying leaves of the oaks and the still-green leaves of the walnut tree. Their quick claws scrabbling on the rough bark, their chuckles rousing the jays and woodpeckers, the little gray beasts frolic singly or in pairs, as though making a game of gathering their winter food.

This afternoon, though cool, was all brightness and soft breezes, and but for the brown patches on the lawn, which has not yet recovered from summer drought, and the crackling oak leaves already strewn upon the ground, I might have taken the season for early spring. The hummingbird who buzzed by and found no flowers remaining on most of the plants undoubtedly knew better. I'd guess that only humans lose track of such things. And if I had lost track, I probably wouldn't have known if it was still last March or already next March. But then, would it really matter?


( Sunday Verse )