Through the Trees

Through the Trees

 

It’s time. 

Face stuffed with the last batch of seeds and debris that I can pick up, I plummet down my tunnel. Spitting out my goods, I place them in a cozy nook of my winter domicile. It looks pretty good, and plenty for me to spend the winter.

My mother always said one of my worst qualities was my curiosity. What can I say? I love looking twice.

So, with that said, it was imperative that I rise up from the ground one more time. When I last burrowed, the light was still in the sky although the leaves were steadily beginning their fall. I begin upwards.

Will the sun still be up? Will the trees still be standing? Who will be waiting for me outside of my hole? A fox? A hawk? Is this the last breath I will breathe, my little hole of goods left to decay in my absence?

I don’t know.

That’s why I must find out.

My head breaks the surface and I peek outside of my tunnel; look left, look right. Nothing other than dead leaves, dying trees, and brown pine needles.

I press out further. No harm has come. Nothing has moved but the sun.

Orange and red, it trickles through the trees. Almost walking like a human being through them, dancing in between the long shadows.

Its warmth tickles my nose. I sniff the air: but I cannot smell it. All I can smell is wet death and pine.

Something moves. I burrow.

It’s time.