Acorns

I sit in my car sometimes, listening to the radio and watching the squirrels. What I’m listening to doesn’t matter. I’ve finally learned to not get lost in the insignificant. Jack White taught me to be like the squirrel a long time ago - but I had forgotten the lesson. 

The squirrels scurry and toil, playing out tiny dramas as they store up their nuts and acorns for winter. I know where they hide them. I watch the squirrels scamper again and again to a spot among the roots of the sad looking pine tree in front of my apartment. They pull at the ground, every muscle in their tiny bodies straining to make the hole deep enough to hoard their treasures. The grass around the pine tree gives them the most trouble.

Sometimes I sit there for half an hour or more, smiling to myself at the thought of looting their coffers. It would be a really mean thing to do, but I can’t help laughing at the thought of one of the squirrels finding their stash had been emptied and having a pint sized panic attack.

Which is really mean, as I said, but maybe sometimes life is mean. And maybe sometimes it feels good to be mean.

I’m not a mean person, despite the fact I fantasize about doing mean things. I care more about avoiding repercussions and making sure I’m never the villain of the piece. After I contemplated stealing the squirrels’ acorns I placed an order for whole hazelnuts on Amazon. Just in case they saw me laughing.