Squirrel

Strolling through the woods, fallen leaves all squelchy and soggy under my wellies. One long step to get over the fast-flowing brook that's carrying twigs to the bottom of the hill. 

Silence, except for the snap of dead wood as I pass.

Looking up to the morning sun, reaching through the boughs of the naked trees, stretching her warms fingers over the strange woodland inhabitants. As the sunlight bathes the huge body of the oak, I tiny door is lit up at his base. A tiny, wooden door with a tiny holly wreath fixed to its knocker. 

Silence, except for the snap of tiny crackers being pulled behind the tiny door.

Several pairs of eyes are watching me. Looking up, I catch a glimpse of two, no, three bushy tales, spiralling up and up, to the uppermost branches. 

Giddiness, from the sunlight and the motion cause me to look away. But as I do, I notice something drop from the mouth of one of my watchers. It spins like a sycamore seed in Autumn. I catch it as it gently bounces into my hand - a tiny green stocking. For a tiny squirrel's paw.


©Lisa Lee, 2014. Sleeping in Elvegren Tales