Have you ever gotten that weird feeling that you were being watched?

Turns out, it wasn’t just a feeling.

Farmer Gary and I were enjoying our morning tête-à-tête in the sunroom, when he froze – sort of the way a bloodhound does – and intently squinted out one of the east-looking windows.

“There’s a squirrel in the tree. He is surveilling us.”

Sure enough:

Gary calls him Sylvester, after a pet squirrel his cousin Renus had as a child.

I informed grandson Cameron via text that we had a spy in our midst. We decided our windows are strong enough to fend off an outright attack, but I assured him the furry-tailed critter was constantly on the lookout.

“Menacingly,” was Cam’s response, dragging the conversation into darker territory.

In this poem she wrote in 2000, Mom dubbed it “squirrel theater.”

Take Me

into the trees or the shore beyond
I want to learn more than my fingertips
holding my pen
the dictionary at my elbow
squirrel theater from my window

The sun is gone
I hear an airplace rising
three bells ring in a little wind
and then a knock at the garden door
and I am moving

~ joan vayo August 9, 2000

So far, we’ve caught Sylvester staring in at us from three different trees. Once his tail twirled wildly, like a fluffy helicopter about to take off. Another time, he lay flat on a limb, in as restful a position as squirrels can get 20 feet in the air.

It was at this point, Gary introduced me to the concept that squirrels bark. We opened the window, and sure enough, communication was taking place.

Was Sylvester barking to his fellow squirrels, you ask? Perhaps inviting them to join him, or warning them to stay away? Gary and I will do our own share of surveilling as the leaves change colors and fall to the forest floor below in the coming days.

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“Take Me” © 2000 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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