Going Somewhere

 I’m sitting here in my office recliner pondering what letters to hit in order to make coherent words appear in the blank white space on my screen. The flashing cursor mocks me. I see something from the corner of my eye. A squirrel moves across the porch roof outside my window. He accelerates and rounds the roofline to the perpendicular garage roof like a driver at Daytona. He runs along the shingles, bounces off the gutter, and leaps three feet onto a branch no thicker than a twig. Up the maple tree he goes. The squirrel heads down the trunk and scurries under the neighbor’s red Cadillac and out of sight.

There is no lesson here. There are no conclusions. Only speculation.