The Squirrel

Another short piece

There is a squirrel here that I swear knows the best spots to watch the sunsets and will sit and watch each night. I really have only seen her–him–them sitting and watching twice and I couldn’t say for certain it was the same one, but I will decide that it is.

The first time was after a storm, when we came outside to observe the sunset drawn in long shadows from glowing trees. We came out to see the long shadows and trees vibrant against a dark, bruised sky to the left, and to the right the valley, rolling in green and patches of night and golden mist. I was staggered, turning back toward the house when I saw them–perched on a branch in the leaning oak tree.

Of course, I thought. Of course we aren’t the only creatures to marvel. And even more glorious this scene must be atop that tree.

And just now, again. The squirrel perched just like me on this hill. They have not moved for minutes, and as I watch their tail sink I must believe–absent any other explanation–that they are relaxing into the night, same as me. I must believe they speak the same language of the sun, or at least enough to understand when it calls.

Did they, both nights, notice and then stop? Or (what I want to believe) did they plan it–did they know the best hour was coming and pull out a chair?

I don’t know how to ask.