Tree Watchers

From the nearest tree, a squirrel peers from the branches. I don't get too close, as rabies in the species is common, but there are a couple of the older red squirrels that are so used to me, they will come out of the shadows and greet me when they hear the rustling of the peanut bag. They're not pets, they are wild things, even if I've named a few that live among our 100-year-old Spruces, including Bubba, the world's fattest  Squirrel, who I can't see, though he is likely nearby. 

Such is the nature of wild things and wild dreams, which, when viewed, summon our wish for constancy, but when out of sight, seem so elusive and illusory that they appear less like dreams and more like ghosts that now live in another dimension. I scatter some peanuts and some sunflower seeds, making sure the feeders and suet corral are full, and return to the house. In my wake, small winged forms hop happily into the bounty even as I shut the door to the house, as the wind blows the snow into intricate patterns like some ancient hieroglyph that only God can read. - B.