Posts Tagged ‘squirrel’

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A furry friend seen while walking through the Boston Public Garden this week.

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As Steve and I walked through a wooded area this past Sunday, something rustled the dried leaves at my feet.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move.  A pale shape.  Small.  I followed.  Soon I found myself kneeling in the mud inching closer to this little fellow, whose photo I took for a friend who loves frogs.

That same day, at an adjacent park, we walked around a pond and through the neighboring woods.  In the middle of a bustling town the park was well-visited by local families.  So, the animals were quite used to people.  We walked through flocks of geese.  Mallards looked up at us wondering if we had a treat.  A chorus of gray squirrels chided Steve for not bringing them nuts.  He promised to do so next time.  But up high in a tree, more reluctant to be seen, sat a black squirrel.

Around grassy knolls we continued to walk.  Then up a hill, past a little fort.  Tucked here and there, in open spaces and sometimes beneath the largest trees, sat families.  Some picnicked.  I saw one man teaching his young daughter how to draw.  Her little boy threw rocks into the pond and up high into the trees.  I wonder if he noticed the beauty that lay at his feet?

The park was not large.  And, truth be told, there were not that many trees, especially around the pond.  Yet somehow, because it stood so still upon a dead branch, a great blue heron remained mostly obscured.  Even as Steve and I stood there and stared at its quiet beauty, other people walked past us and muttered, “I wonder what they see?”

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An Orchid in Back Bay

A Magnolia Bud in Central Square

A Squirrel Along the Charles River

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Sometimes if I leave my bedroom window open, I return home at the end of the day to oak leaves strewn about my floor.  When I sit at my writing desk, I can look over my shoulder and into the gold-ringed eyes of a black bird as it perches near-hidden amidst green leaves.  A squirrel has dashed by on occasion.  A blue jay sang to me once.  I have had to snap a branch because I feared the wind would drive it through the glass.  Under my breath I said all sorts of “I’m sorry.”  You see, I live on the top floor of a rambling old Victorian house.  And towering above that house is the oak tree.  Sitting in my bedroom at my desk with the wind whistling through, and the oak tree doing its end of summer shimmy with acorns still green, I feel quite blessed to be where I am.

Oak Tree

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