As we looked to the south this morning, we could see only gray. A soft cloud cover gauzed the sky, not the ominous white-gray of impending snow, but a dull gray that simply daubed all color away.  

The gray sky blended with the light frost on the roofs across the street, further blotting color. Shingle colors from house to house were indistinguishable; indeed, shingles could only be told from the sky by the intrusion of chimneys in their midst. 

The pale predawn light was too weak to allow any discernment of any color elsewhere, either. The deep green of the Japanese yew looked the same as the brown of the pear trees. The grass, littered with leaves (God’s leaf-blower hasn’t been that active this winter) and covered with frost, was brown as well, only fainter. 

To the west, the full moon was fading into the clouds, the growing light diminishing its brilliance, which we had seen just half an hour before, now so muted that the clouds simply absorbed it, making it one with them. 

Then, to the southeast, above the roof line of houses farther down the street, a vibrant orange glow appeared and then gathered itself into a sliver of shape with a rounded top that gradually grew larger and recognizably a circle rising slowly above the housetops, a brilliant orange gemstone that provided the only color in the still-gray dawn. 

And that was the view from our window this morning. 

What? Oh. The office window. 

Well, yesterday, out the back window of my office, a commotion of shadow on one of Big Maple’s larger limbs caught my eye and I looked out to see a shadow that suggested one of our squirrels. I figured it was engaged in the usual squirrely hijinks, but I was caught in a morass of nonsense words that was supposed to be a chapter that needed editing (not my fault, this time!) and was ready to look away when suddenly emerged a pair of squirrels working their way from behind a thick vertical branch into visibility along a long more horizontal one.  

Well, the one on the bottom was working her way up that branch. The one on top was working his way into her.

Yes, the pair was in flagrante delicto, and one of them, at least, was enjoying it immensely. On the other hand, she looked a bit annoyed. 

Not as annoyed, though, as a third squirrel, who burst onto my consciousness by the great rustle in one of the pines 30 feet away, and who raced from there to Little Maple, which he scampered up until reaching its half of the Maple Squirrel Bridge, which he ran along up to the jumping point, which he took in a single bound to gain the Big Maple half of the bridge, which was traversed with great speed so that he could arrive on the scene. 

It was unclear whether the third squirrel was jilted lover, bon vivant hopeful of ménaging a trois, angry cuckold, or outraged moral police. It is clear, however, that he was not welcome—at least by the male, who abandoned his business and immediately registered umbrage at the interruption (squirrels have this over people: they don’t need to put their breeches back on first) (also, blessedly, they carry no weapons). 

The female, on the other hand, saw the newcomer’s arrival as less intrusion than reprieve and tore down the branch back toward the center of the tree and then down the trunk faster than when the hawk swoops into the yard—followed, in hot pursuit, you might say, by her two swains.  She ran off, changing directions with Barry Sanders-like moves several times, the guys matching her move for move but unable to gain ground.

The three of them disappeared into the pines beyond Little Maple, though the corner of my eye could see branches on those trees swaying as a result of fast-moving squirrels for the next five minutes or so. 

And that was the view out of my office window. 

What? Oh. Photos.  

Well, sorry, I didn’t take any. Couldn't really. It all came and went so fast. 

Maybe that’s why she wanted to get away.   

Words © 2012 AtHome Pilgrim.

All Rights Reserved.