A Minor Bereavement.

Remember the clucking squirrel I wrote about on Sunday? Well, today my walk took me past the entrance to the same wood, and lying at the roadside – a mere thirty feet from the clucking incident – was a dead squirrel, presumably a road kill.

It was a poignant sight because, although I have no way of knowing whether it was the same squirrel, when an animal talks to you like that and in such a singular manner, it becomes personal.