High on his perch, tail curled over his back, the squirrel watches as the snow comes down. Stealthily another climbs the tree. Round and down they go, leaping from branch to branch, tails twitching. Are they playing, or is there another, darker purpose to their actions? I do not know, for they have gone from my view, into the forest, one chasing the other. Perhaps they are making other squirrels. The indifferent snow still falls.
--Ray Yeager
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