There are red squirrels in my local woods. Sometimes I spot one of them running for a tree, and I’m always captivated by its fluid, rolling motion.
Usually my dog skids through the damp leaves, whining with desperate hope, after the squirrel. It always ends with the squirrel far up the tree, watching my earthbound (leaping) dog with its bright, black eyes.
Sometimes we only see signs of the squirrel’s existence, such as the outspread wings of the frilly hazelnut casing.
The nut is now part of a stash, or maybe it was eaten on the spot: part of a picnic upon the moss, when the forest was free from optimistic dogs.