It is evening, and all the players are on the stage: Catbird, Bluejay, Fox squirrel, and of course the ever present chipmunk. This is truly chipmunk city. Not a moment passes that I can't see three of these little rodents at the same time: busily in search of food, or frozen in terror. They climb a nearby shrub and dangle from the thinest branches reaching for berries.
The weasels pop in and out of the nearby snag. Now I'm positive they live there. With so many chipmunks around this is surely weasel heaven.
Hours pass.
The sun has finally passed over the treeline, and I begin to loose light under the forest canopy. Insects dance in the remaining beams of sunlight: like dust with wings. Everything seems to move about with less vigor than in the morning. I imagine they're all full from a day's feeding, and are now stuffing their faces before heading off for a good night's sleep. Like Americans on Thanksgiving.
Even bird song is thin and distant. There are moments of complete silence. The light slowly slips to pink, and finally gray. Surely, the raccoons are eager to come out for an egg dinner? But no one comes. No skunk, no raccoon, no coyote: the usual suspects in the turtle egg marauding business.
But there is a rustle in the grass nearby, and with a burst of enthusiasm comes not one or two weasels, but five! All bound across the trail in single file. Four pups and mom. It must be time for the night hunt: mouse must be on the menu!
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Tracy-You claim not be a great writer, but, I must disagree. Your imagery is inspired and takes me to where you are, and that is what it's all about.
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