There is a squirrel who comes to the church and sits on our overhead brick structures to crack open nuts and have a meal. I watched him after a Sunday service once, and he didn’t seem at all perturbed about having an audience.
I caught myself this week, following a sneezing fit, lamenting that what was left of Spring was a plethora of allergens with none of the color and bloom that ought to accompany them. That was a grumpy thought, though. What I enjoy most about Spring isn’t actually the color. It’s the sound.