The Squirrel

She watches it for a while as it scurries from the base of one tree to the next. It stands up on its hind legs and seems to sniff the air for a moment then continues to rummage around the fallen leaves. Eventually it scurries so close to her legs she feels she could bend down and touch it. Carefully she reaches into her handbag and pulls out her phone, taps in her pass code and then on the camera icon. She slowly raises her arm to point the camera at the squirrel just as it moves off. She has to turn slightly to her right as she swivels to follow it so she can get it in the frame properly. She feels a tap on her left ear.

‘Oh my goodness I’m so sorry’, he says. ‘I was so intent on trying to get a picture of that squirrel I didn’t realise I was so close’.

‘That’s ok’, she says and smiles. ‘I was trying to do the same’, and laughs.

‘I’m Gordon’, he says. ‘My wife used to come here and feed these little blighters all the time when she was alive. I love to come and watch them still’.

‘Mary’, she says. ‘I lost my husband last year. He wasn’t one for parks my Fred’.

The squirrel disappears behind a tree, content.

Author: George McDermid

I scratch out poems, and the odd little tale. Mostly for my own amusement.

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