In the very beginning of winter, as the last bright leaves fell from the trees
we forgot a soft, fleecy blanket outside in the yard.
Bright blue, with pink and yellow shapes all over it,
it got rained on, and snowed on,
and frozen solid.
But not by everyone.
Because for weeks I’ve wondered how it keeps moving around,
from the bird feeders, to the steps,
to the base of the big, old maple tree.
I’ve even said to Wil, “I wonder how that blanket keeps moving around the yard?” And mostly figured it must just be the wind.
But then I got my answer.
One morning, out the big picture window
Revel and I, and my mom, and Zander
watched one of the small gray squirrels with the pinkish ears
climb down from the leaf nest in the high branches of the tall, scraggly spruce tree,
down through the branches, and over the trunk,
around the fence and over the ground,
to the bright blue blanket with the little shapes
left to weather the winter storms.
He gathered up the edge of the blanket in his small, perfect hands, and between his sharp little teeth
with all his might
back towards the fence, and the tree trunk
over the same way he had come.
But it was heavy for him, and much too large,
and so he rested a moment and then
with mighty little bites,
until his cheeks were stuffed with bright blue tufts
of our fuzzy, fleecy blanket.
And then he scampered,
quick and sure footed,
back through the tree branches, back to his nest,
in the highest limbs
of the old, and scraggly spruce tree.
Several times he came,
running, grabbing, chewing, and running back up again,
until I presume,
he had what he wanted
and curled back into his freshly made bed
now bright blue
like the color of a summer sky,
or the wings of the bluebird,
or the deepest part of the
vast and salty
Thank you for listening,