Squirrel

In his day, he had been the king of all he surveyed. Now, the large grey grandfather squirrel laid stretched full length on his back, his dying revealed, in the bright morning sunshine, to all who cared to notice. The blue sky reflected brightly in his large, black and now unseeing eyes. He breathed slowly; his beige belly moving as rhythmically as if he were only asleep.

For a long time-in squirrel years-he had harvested the riches that the large park provided; an abundance of acorns, nuts, berries and fresh water. Like the keenest of acrobats, he leaped among the tree tops, his sure claws never failing to grasp even the slimmest of branches. At mating time, he eagerly scampered among the females, his bushy tail in full and proud bloom; and he sired many generations of his kind. There were no predators to speak of where he lived; and he existed wisely and harmoniously with the ducks and geese that shared this world; season after season.

Yet his autumn had come unannounced, on the warmest of summer days, and was not to be denied. He may have slipped and plummeted to the ground from a tall tree top, or he may have suffered the squirrel equivalent of heart failure. As small puffy white clouds scudded past, the large squirrel breathed deeply only once more, and then was still.

There’ll be no autopsy, nor any last rites given. And whether he becomes an avian feast or simply nourishes the earth with his body, the fact is that the large grey grandfather squirrel will be recycled, and so remain a continuing part of his world. I’d like to think that he’d like that…