Animal Activities #39

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I was sitting one afternoon under a shady old tree, and right in front of me a tiny brown squirrel showed up, so quick like a spark. The Latin name they call it is Sciurus, which honestly sounds like some grand hero from history but it’s just this small creature leaping branch to branch. My eyes followed it because you can’t ignore how restless it is, never really standing still, not even for one blink.

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The way that little one holds a nut in its tiny hands makes me laugh, almost like it guarding treasure more valuable than gold. Sometimes I think of it as collectio, that old Latin word for gathering, because that’s exactly what they doing all day long—collecting and hiding. It digs small holes, covers them with dirt, and runs off like nothing happened, as if whispering “this secret is mine.” But truth be told, it doesn’t even remember all of them. So later on, a tree might sprout from forgotten stash, and suddenly that squirrel became a farmer without planning it. Instinctus naturae, nature’s instinct, guiding without asking.

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I keep watching. That big fluffy tail, it waves around like a flag, almost bigger than the whole body itself. Some old Roman poet might have written of it as cauda magna, the great tail, because it’s not just decoration. It works like balance when climbing, keeps them warm at night, and even as a shield from rain dripping through the leaves. Honestly it feels like a blanket stitched by nature herself.

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When a hawk circled above, and the sets it's eye on the hawk, I swear I’ve never seen such lightning in motion. The squirrel runs upward on the tree, claws gripping bark like steel hooks. There is this Latin saying I once read, vita est pugna—life is a battle. That tiny creature lives by it every sunrise to sunset, dodging danger from sky and ground. If it didn’t run with wit, it wouldn’t live another day.

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There’s something about their play that feels almost holy. Two of them racing each other, spiraling round the trunk, climbing fast then suddenly pausing mid-motion, then shooting upward again. Like some game only they know the rules of. A dance? maybe. Or just ludus naturae, the play of nature itself. And the sound they make while at it—soft chatter, squeaks like broken whistles, as if they gossip about things too small for me to understand.

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Night falls, and I once followed with my eyes to see where one disappeared. High above, tucked between branches, sat a round nest. Twigs, leaves, and soft pieces of whatever it finds, woven together into a home. In another tongue maybe you call it domus parva, a little house, but to them it is a fortress against cold winds. Families curl inside, warmth flowing through their tiny bodies while moonlight paints silver on the leaves.

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Thinking about it, their whole day feels like a lesson meant for us. They never waste morning, always preparing for days when food is scarce. That thought brings to mind another Latin phrase—praeparatio est vita, preparation is life. What a small animal can show a human: that saving, storing, and planning makes survival possible. Yet also, in their forgetting, when they leave seeds behind and trees grow, there is another truth. Out of mistakes, beauty can happen.

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Sometimes, If i sit alone, I picture myself living like them. Hopping lightly from one duty to another, gathering little joys, making hidden corners where happiness waits for later. The squirrel may not think about the future like I do, but somehow it shapes the future of forests. An acorn tucked in soil, covered and abandoned, rises tall decades later. That tree shades another generation of squirrels, who repeat the cycle again and again.

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And it isn’t all about work either. Their playful racing reminds me life not just about struggle. Even in the middle of danger, they chase one another in circles, laughing in their own voice, tasting joy. Maybe humans forget that too quickly. Ludere est vivere—to play is to live.

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I find it amazing how an animal like that, so small holds so many meanings. But maybe it not meanings at all, maybe I just watching with human eyes and giving them more than they carry. Even so, the truth still stands: every leap, every buried nut, every flick of that giant tail tells a story written in the language of movement.

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I invite @promisezella @etoro @mayjay @peacemike to participate in this contest

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Cc,
@xkool24