I walked outside needing a breath of fresh air, as they say, and grabbed only my sunglasses before stepping through the door.  I put them on as I pulled the door closed behind me.  With only a few steps between my position and the fence, it was not long before my quiet pace carried me to its border.  And I froze.

My squirrel friend was there, about eye height in the tree.  While I can not be certain it was in fact the same squirrel with whom I had visited once before, there was a certain familiarity with his activities and demeanor that spoke volumes to me, as though he wore this encounter comfortably like he had the first time we met.  In my mind anyway, this was indeed my friend, clothed in comfort at my presence, unworried by my invasion of his activities.

I had no care to frighten him.  That is why I froze.  And I watched.  With my sunglasses in place camouflaging my eyes, he could not of course see their movement following his.  There was no need to frighten him or make him fear me.  I believe neither occurred.

He sauntered down the tree, passing effortlessly from branch to branch, pausing after every jump to look at me, perhaps wondering to himself what my intentions might be.  Each momentary delay passed quickly, and then he would continue to the next branch on his way down the tree.  A few steps, pause for a second or two, jump, pause again.  Following every movement, he would take special care to note my location and disposition.  At each juncture I was aware of my own reflection in his eyes, deep, dark, black eyes filled with the world around us.

Clinging vertically with head hanging downward, he stopped abruptly and stared at me with an intensity that was not the same as his casual glances.  Again I drowned in the deep knowing of his eyes as they fell upon me.  Then he chirped — and I would swear it was directed at me personally.  Odd that it sounded like a chirp, but anyone who has heard squirrels talk will undoubtedly recognize my meaning.  In his mind, I am quite certain it was a bark, if not a roar, and his spirit must have filled with pride at knowing I did not respond to his challenge.  Surely I must be frightened of the beast and worried for my own safety.

He was looking directly at me when he spoke, and his subtle head movement associated with the sound felt like an invitation to converse.  I was not so daft as to believe that self-deception, however, and he quickly moved further down the tree after I failed to respond to his inquiry, yet I was forced to squelch a chuckle.

I quietly watched him, daring not to move lest I frighten him, standing silent and still while he sauntered further down the tree.  Glancing this way and that as he approached the ground, I felt as though I were waiting for the cat to come out of the tree and inside for dinner.  It is possible I lost myself in the experience as I am apt to do, for I can not be certain precisely how long it took for him to leap from the bark-covered highway upon which he traveled to the storm debris that haphazardly rested about the floor of this wide open home in which he lived.

Apparently in no hurry to leave, he meandered about the base of the tree for a bit, glancing back at me a few times as though confirming I was not suddenly scaling the fence and giving chase.  With a little dig here and another there, his hunt for food was lazy and comfortable and nearly carefree.  Birds careened overheard and sang their songs while this little friend concerned himself with lunch, and the sun shined down upon all of us and warmed the world with its light.

Realizing, I suppose, that nothing of interest was to be found, or perhaps even deciding the search was not worth the concern over my presence, he eventually galloped off toward new adventures, heading toward the lake and the plethora of trees that surround it.  I watched stealthily as he ran a bit, paused and looked around, then ran a bit further before pausing again.  He disappeared then, undoubtedly exploring the day with innocent fervor, living out his days in the great wild still available to him and not yet encroached upon by humans.  I envied him in that moment: his freedom, his near untroubled existence, his communion with nature on its terms that I found very much unlike our own attempts to conquer and mold it to our whims.

I stood at the fence watching after him even though I could no longer see his activities.  Did I hope for his return, to enjoy yet another visit that seemed almost magical with the clear understanding betwixt us?  Or, and I feared as much, was I suffering the creature with pride-filled anthropomorphization, projecting to it an understanding it did not actually feel?  Honestly, I don’t think it matters.