The sky is the color of cold stones as I carefully descend the trunk of the dying oak. The tree's few remaining leaves rustle as the light autumn morning breeze passes through them. One of them is released from the air, making a soft pop as it breaks away from its anchored brethren and begins to fall to the ground below. It twists and turns as it goes and I watch it with momentary curiosity. I've seen it often before. It is still mostly green, only slightly browned at the edges. He pretends to fall, as if he knows he has an audience. He spins and dances, carried by the breeze onto an invisible stage. The breeze fades and dies and the leaf follows it, descending quickly towards the earth like a predatory bird diving on its prey. He makes no sound as he lands and lies on top of his brothers who had performed the dance before him. Its faded green stands out brilliantly against the decaying browns and purples. I wrinkle my nose as my interest passes, then continue my run along the trunk of the tree. The life of a squirrel in autumn is precious and dangerous. I am a North American tree squirrel. I'm quite young, only a little over a year old. Considering where I live this is a great achievement. I have seen many cousins ​​murdered by screeching hunting birds, bored and spoiled house cats, armed humans dressed like trees, and, most often, shiny metal boxes hurtling down the stone path. My kind is usually very good at avoiding roads. We hold onto the tops of trees and street lamps and scurry past their branches. However, there are times when we must exploit the land, and that is where we find danger. I'm very good at avoiding danger. They are small and usually quite agile with thick bark gr...... center of paper ......an, howling loudly to announce its victory. The door opens, but I can't see by whom. There is a gasp and the moans and growls of a human being. "Let him go! Let him go!" the creature calls. The cat lifts its paw from my wound. I hear the human growl again. The cat meows and rushes in through the open door. The human groans in disgust, then the door closes with a click. Fighting the growing pain and fearing a second capture, I quickly get up and flee home, to the safety of my dying oak tree. I huddle in the shade of the tree and can see the bright gray afternoon light from outside. The smell of my blood is strong as it dries, killing any hunger that may have grown. My eyelids feel heavy and my body feels cold despite the fur. I hide under old dry leaves and pine needles for more warmth and close my eyes. Tomorrow will be a hard day and I need rest.