landscape/memory.

Out the window: white canvas, tangle of grey trunks exploding out. Austere, cold, the kind of snow great thinkers might have thought on.

Then there’s this little bouncy grey squirrel emerging from the treescape. He (let’s say he) launches off the snow like a skipped stone on water, stopping right under the young forsythia in my view. Behind the glass, I watch as he dives his little paws into the 12 inches of snow, tunneling down. Two seconds max of digging before pausing to check for threats, and then back in: digdigdigdigdigdigdig – look – digdigdigdigdigdig – look. The rhythm is so comical, yet honest. He digs himself down until all I see is the wiry tail, little shoulders and spine all covered in snow. Just when I begin to wonder if he’s in the right spot, jackpot! Two little paws arise out of the back of the fridge with the prize: hickory nut. With pleasure, we both enjoy the nut, right there. It’s cold, snow dusted, perfectly preserved, like pistachio ice cream from the bougie ice cream store. I swear I can taste it too.

After snack, I wonder what’s next. It’s back to digdigdigdigdigdigdig – look – digdigdigdigdigdig –look. More tunneling this time, more effort. But it’s there, he knows, and after a few more minutes of the frantic then careful motions that only squirrels can switch between, he’s got another one. In slow motion, I watch him turn back towards the red oak, consider, then launch his way up to a tiny hole I never noticed before – dull human that I am. In no time at all he’s upside down, 50 ft. up a tree, peering down into the hole below with the treat in his mouth. Two paws emerge from the hole, grab the nut, then disappear. A smile spreads across my face, my heart too. Sharing, something every piece of this breathing earth knows how to do. Empty handed now, he climbs to the highest crook in the tree, orients towards the sun. I sit with him there, satisfied, our faces to the bright morning sun together.

I marvel at what the squirrel must know of the contour and contents of every inch of this territory. It is utter brilliance that we humans are surrounded by, not the other way around. We do though, sometimes align ourselves in just the right way for that brilliance to be reflected back onto us…sometimes.

It’s said that the world is constantly writing our stories, recording everything that’s done and said. This land has a memory longer than our first ancestors, has known every bone discarded with an intimacy we long for. Perhaps some of us - the pesky furred ones - are able to hear the land well up underfoot with story, memory, sustenance. What would that sound like, I wonder?