The angry chatter
Yesterday, it was about 70 degrees and sunny with little or no wind. An altogether wonderful day, especially for mid-January. We stood outside the auditorium in our shirt sleeves in the warm sun.
Today it's around 40, cloudy and the wind is howling like a banshee out of the North. It feels much colder than the thermometer indicates. The wind is like a living presence, making the building shake as it swirls trash across the yards. No shirt sleeves today. Today is button the top button on the winter coat and pull the collar up to shield the ears.
Along the edge of the property is a row of trees, stark and leafless at this time of year. More trees march in a line up the hill behind us. With the leaves gone, I can see the messy squirrel nests perched high in the branches. I can count five from where I stand. I'm sure there are more up the hill further, but the branches merge together to form a grey-brown mat that my eyes cannot pierce.
But the whipping of the trees in the wind has apparently thrown at least one squirrel from the messy ball of leaves and trash he (she?) calls home. That is one ticked off rodent. It chatters loudly and scampers from branch to branch attempting to get back home. Just as it gets close, another violent gust of wind dislodges it and sends it back to the lower branches. Another crescendo of angry chatter erupts before the squirrel again attempts it's journey toward the nest. The chatter seems to get louder with each failed attempt to reach the goal high in the swaying branches. Angry chatter railing against the unfairness of the universe that has unleashed this howling wind upon the poor, put upon creature. "Knock it off, I just want to get home!", it seems to be saying.
How very like the squirrels we are.
Today it's around 40, cloudy and the wind is howling like a banshee out of the North. It feels much colder than the thermometer indicates. The wind is like a living presence, making the building shake as it swirls trash across the yards. No shirt sleeves today. Today is button the top button on the winter coat and pull the collar up to shield the ears.
Along the edge of the property is a row of trees, stark and leafless at this time of year. More trees march in a line up the hill behind us. With the leaves gone, I can see the messy squirrel nests perched high in the branches. I can count five from where I stand. I'm sure there are more up the hill further, but the branches merge together to form a grey-brown mat that my eyes cannot pierce.
But the whipping of the trees in the wind has apparently thrown at least one squirrel from the messy ball of leaves and trash he (she?) calls home. That is one ticked off rodent. It chatters loudly and scampers from branch to branch attempting to get back home. Just as it gets close, another violent gust of wind dislodges it and sends it back to the lower branches. Another crescendo of angry chatter erupts before the squirrel again attempts it's journey toward the nest. The chatter seems to get louder with each failed attempt to reach the goal high in the swaying branches. Angry chatter railing against the unfairness of the universe that has unleashed this howling wind upon the poor, put upon creature. "Knock it off, I just want to get home!", it seems to be saying.
How very like the squirrels we are.
posted by Gaius Arbo | 11:33 AM
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