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A squirrel rested upon an overhanging branch surrounded by his cache of acorns from earlier in the season~ small brown certainties gathered one by one through afternoons of industry, through gusting leaves and shortening days. Tonight, however, he touched none of them. The stream moved softly below. The moon lingered among the branches, its silver moonlight settling upon his whiskers, upon the bark, upon the waiting acorns. He seemed less a gatherer than a contemplative, an old keeper of fortunes reviewing his accounts. All summer he had hurried. All autumn he had stored. Now the work was finished. For one luminous, moonlit hour abundance became stillness. I wondered if he was ruminating about the acorns, not as food, but as possibilities? After all, each carried a hidden oak. Each concealed its own future forest. Perhaps he was considering which acorns would nourish winter, and which might be forgotten beneath leaves and snow, only to awaken later as saplings reaching skyward. The moonlight touched them all equally. The saved. The spent. The future trees. The squirrel remained perfectly still. No nibbling. No burying. No haste. Only watching. Suddenly, the scene felt oddly human. How rarely we sit among the things we have gathered, the hopes, the memories, the loves, the small achievements, and simply admire them without reaching for more. Below, the stream continued its silver passage through darkness. Above, the moon d r i f t e d westward. Between them sat the squirrel, keeping company with a handful of acorns and a forest not yet revealed.

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