It's a small thing really, no larger than a finger-tip width across and deep and as finely tined as a fairy comb might be, but oh, the weight of the meaning.
For several mornings I have scrutinized the block of soft suet in the cage feeder for these telltale marks - the gnaw-prints of flying squirrels. Nocturnal visitors that I rarely glimpse - except for the predawn darkness of a winter's morning when I am on the deck with a cup of coffee and they are still lingering for a nibble - I still invest a great deal of my daily well-being in knowing that somewhere, "out there," they still reside in the neighboring wood and my efforts to provide a little sustenance are appreciated. And, for several long days, I had only the peck marks of woodpeckers to behold.
And so, I did what I always do when it comes to our woodland creatures - I worried and wondered if something might have happened to them.
Feeling a strong attachment to a tiny creature I rarely see, and cannot help in any other way, carries with it a great weight of responsibility. It is a silent partnership of food provider and nightly nibbler.
Frankly, I do not need to see the squirrels themselves to be comforted or brushed with happiness each time I spy the small rake of teeth.
It is enough to know that as I sleep, they swoop down from leafed shadows, alight on the box elder tree, plant their feet for purchase, and eat. To keep this fragile promise to a rare and small creature is a stewardship of the best kind. I have only the thin, straight press of line in a soft white block for thanks.
It is enough.
