Squirrel

It was a cool automn day in Ottawa. The sun shone bright in the sky. The trees stood tall, slowly waving their bright-orange leaves. A baby bird chirped from high up in a tree, calling for food. Laying in the grass nearby, a cat waited, as patient as the day was long. It was a slow, quiet day.

Deeper in the woods, a squirrel was smelling a round brownish object, its nostrils filling with the scent of rock. The squirrel placed the rock back on the ground silently before hopping onto a nearby log, looking for mushrooms. The squirrel paused its search for a moment as a breeze gently ruffled its fur.

The squirrel listened. It heard the calming rustle of leaves above it. It heard the soothing chirps of a baby bird somewhere further in the woods. It heard the sweet howl of the wind brushing against its ears. Listening attentively, it could feel the presence of the ever-welcoming oak trees all around – the presence of home.

The smell of mushroom brought the squirrel hopping to the edge of its log. It picked up the mushroom with its small paws and turned it over, sniffing it. Satisfied, mushroom in mouth, the squirrel hopped gracefully along from tree to tree – a budding seed in a sea of light.