So many squirrels milled around her.
She loved the circus, and thank goodness she did because one squirrel felt himself safer sitting close, waiting for crumbs to fall to the ground.
He didn’t think in English–he was a squirrel after all.
He thought in terms of blades of grass, holes in trees, the musky scent of colleagues, temperatures rising and falling, up and down, up and down.
Of course he also thought in terms of girls eating toast.
If only she knew what the little squirrel thought, she might drop a crumb or two on purpose.
Winter fast approaching and all.
He sat, nerves afire, sometimes approaching quite close to her, placing his small furry hand on her shoe.
She didn’t notice, except to note he was around.
She loved animals, it’s just that she couldn’t speak their language.
Suddenly, the squirrel had it.
He scaled the bench and sat next to her.
The proximity helped her understand some of what he was saying.
She squeezed a bit between her fingers, tore it off, placing it on the beige lacquer surface between them.
He gingerly lunged, tail aflicker, toward the piece of crusty, buttery toast.
Holding it in his hands, he looked up and then sniffed the morsel.