Outside my window, the maple stretches dark, mostly bare branches to the sky. Arching over my driveway, the slimmer, barer arms of the white mulberry entwine with the maple. At the edge of my container garden, the crepe myrtle’s limbs, twisted and bare of bark, rise past the eaves. These trees and shrub are a playground for squirrels and birds. This morning, a squirrel is enjoying something in the maple. What? Certainly not nuts. He grabs a small twig, brings it to his mouth, then jumps to another. Sometimes he hangs upside down by his toes, tempting death if he slips and lands on the concrete drive below him. 
Two black-capped chickadees light in the crepe myrtle, hop from limb to twig, cock their heads and look in at me, then shoot away, as quickly as they flew in. There’s a real flurry of fur and feathers this morning in my front yard.
True to form, as I begin to write, Nemo needs to go outside. So, I open the back door for him, he scoots out and more birds and squirrels scatter like leaves before the wind. Everyone is moving in super-speed this morning. 
Everyone but me.
I sit at the computer with a cup of steaming Folgers and notice tree patterns on my neighbor’s house across the street, thrown there by the early morning sun. It’s a beautiful morning, sunny and still except for the creatures who inhabit this space on the earth with me. Looks like an interesting day. 
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