E G O S P E W

The American crow is cawing at the far end of the property over some unseen interloper.  Often the interloper is I, but this time, the usual interloper remains hidden behind the kitchen screen door, watching how fall is gently insinuating itself into our nature preserve, while the morning coffee brews.  The real interloper must itself be close though not so dangerous, as the caw is persistent, but not raucous, and just one crow, not a murder.  Perhaps the interloper is Autumn herself.

Suddenly a chipmunk pops out from under the stockade fence and scampers to the 18-inch stone statue rescued from the old property.  The statue depicts a boy pouring water into a basin to offer sips to small mammals.  Except the statue was broken into fragments, which I have collected and saved in the basin.  So it looks instead like a boy pouring pieces of his own body, an offering for small but evil satanic reptiles.

The chipmunk takes the favorite vantage point on top of the boy’s head.  Chipmunks through the eons have enjoyed this safe lookout, which I established about 14 months ago.  The fence protects their rear flank and they achieve a 180-degree sweep of the terrain, plus, due to their elevation, an incredible quarter-mile visibility.  (Don’t worry.  The crow is not going to come sweeping down to pluck the tasty morsel offering itself.  This is a mostly happy fable.)

The chipmunk jumps down and scampers along the edge of the driveway, tail as stiffly vertical as a battle flag.  Its legs are tiny blurs of frenetic coordination that must in that one burst consume 20% of its daily caloric allotment.  One can’t help but think the flag-high tail would make the perfect handle for a swooping crow.  Ten feet down the drive, it stops and pops up on its hind legs into a classic Meerkat pose, scanning for, one assumes – carefully on the lookout for, one hopes – predators.  Seconds later, it is again a tail-high sprinter for another ten human feet, further down the drive.

How long is a rod?  I doubt they even mention it anymore in elementary school linear measurement lessons, let alone force rote memorization of the conversion values.  It is 16½ feet.  What a noble median measure!  Perhaps that is how far the chipmunk actually sprinted.  And possibly the derivation of the measure itself: one chipmunk sprint, or more properly: Rodent Overland Distance — rod, for short.

This time when it stops, the chipmunk takes a tiny soft mound configuration on the edge of the grass, the definition of compactness.  At this distance, through my bi-focs and the flyscreen, I really cannot make it out among the early brown leaves.  I hope an American crow would have as much trouble detecting the cute furry bundle.  (I told you, don’t worry.)

Then it is off again for another rod.  It is either running full speed, max output, 100 scale miles per hour, 50 calories per millisecond. . . Or it is not: Instant stop; instant Meerkat pose; not one muscle atwitch.

I simply love these little guys.  I wish so much they would be my friends.  I have made overtures, tossing shelled almonds at them, whistling friendly greetings of non-aggression, but off they took, shunning the outstretched hand of interspecies concord.  I am hurt.  I am offended.  How can these little bastards disrespect such overt Franciscanism?  Thus, I dis them back, and call them little scoundrels!  And thereby dub them Chimpunks.

The American crow has decided to join me in my observation, and derision no doubt.  Still cawing at a mere level two alarm, it flies the three or four rods to the top of the evergreen nearby.  How different its attitude from the frantic sprints of the formerly cute little punks.  The giant black crow is almost lackadaisical in its flight, pumping his wings effortlessly, moving in long sweep and utter aplomb.  It approaches a slender branch upon which to perch, one which could never possibly hold what must be ten pounds of bird, and lands as gracefully as a butterfly in a dream.  I am again amazed at their finely honed internal resources; their balance, intelligence, blackness, power.

The stupid punk several rod down the drive drops to the ground and scampers into the brush by the fence, disappearing for a snack and nap.  The crow, not the least bit interested in the tiny-brained fat-cheeked thin-limbed micromammal, continues periodic announcements, both repelling the dangerous and welcoming the friendly interlopers, while checking what’s next on his agenda for this autumn day.