If I were a squirrel, I’d be the type of squirrel that rummages casually. I’d be a cool squirrel. I’d be a sauntering squirrel. Like a rich fella trolling the aisles of a supermarket after nine o’ clock. Sampling the olives. Stealing cookies.
I’d examine a seed, then look around, then mumble song lyrics to myself. This looks okay. I guess. I heard about this one from some guys near the pond. Sunflower, they call it. Easy to find these days. Easy to eat. Still. Doesn’t taste like a sun. Doesn’t taste like a flower.
Until November. Then I’d be the type of squirrel that makes fun of golfers and tennis players and never sleeps. I’d never close my eyes. I’d run around the forest chirping like it’s the end of the world.
Because it will be. Because I’m not the type of squirrel to make it through a winter.