The Dangerous Life of a Squirrel in Autumn

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The sky is the color of cold stones as I cautiously make my way down the trunk of dying oak. The few remaining leaves of the tree rustle as a light autumn morning breeze passes through them. One of them is blown free, making a soft snapping sound as it breaks away from its anchored brothers and begins to fall to the ground below. It twists and turns as it goes and I watch it in momentary curiosity. I have seen this often before. It is still mostly green, only slightly browning at the edges. It makes a show of falling, as though it knows it has an audience. It spins and dances, carried across an unseen stage by the breeze. The breeze fades and dies and the leaf follows shooting down quickly towards the earth like a predatory birding diving down onto its prey. It makes no sound as it lands and lies atop its brethren who had performed the dance before it. Its faded green shows brightly against the decaying browns and violets. I twitch my nose as my interest passes then continue my sprint down the trunk of the tree. The life of a squirrel in autumn precious and dangerous.
I am a North American tree squirrel. I am fairly young, only a little over a year old. Considering where I live this is a great accomplishment. I have watched many cousins murdered by screeching hunting birds, bored and pampered house cats, humans with guns who are dressed like trees, and most often the shiny metal boxes that speed by on the stone path. Usually my kind are very good about avoiding the streets. We keep to the tops of trees and light posts and hurry across their branches. However, there are times when we have to use the ground, and it is there that we find danger. I am very good at avoiding danger. I am small and usually quite lithe with thick bark gr...

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...an, howling loudly to announce its victory. The door opens, but I cannot see by who. There is a gasp and the wails and growls of a human. “Let it go! Let it go!” the creature calls. The cat lifts its paw from my wound. I hear the human growl again. The cat yowls and dashes in through the open door. The human groans in disgust, then the door closes with a tight click.
Fighting my growing pain and fearing a second capture, I quickly get up and flee home to the safety of my dying oak. I curl up in the shadows of the tree and am able to see the bright gray afternoon light from outside. The scent of my blood is strong as it dries, killing any hunger that may have grown. My eyelids feel heavy and my body grows cold in spite of my fur. I burrow beneath old dry leaves and pine needles for the extra warmth and close my eyes. Tomorrow will be a hard day and I need the rest.

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