Water at four degrees expands, evident by a noted rise in the nearby channel, the Red’s frozen surface glaring, a murder of crow dancing on its surface. Two thistle loaded tubes underhang the riverhouse, providing early reinforcement for finch survival, brisk is the air, the sun brilliant, winter’s clime has arrived.

His coat blonded orange, his tail perk and tall, running with the speed and elegance of a deer, bounding, but not with direct fear, more with an attitude of simple gaming, for after all Mr. Fox deserves the riverside as much as any of us.

Squirrel populations invite regular thoughts of an inconspicuous urban harvest for a weekend lunch or dinner, their regular rummages continue from yet another heavy seeding from the stately burr oaks that surround their plantation, my southern heritage inescapable.

Greys and reds, chasing about, climbing vertically then crossing the high canopied sidewalks, tree by tree, the smaller red’s being more sinister in their elected winter abodes, gnawing through facia board hidden behind a blue spruce growing on the southern corner of the house provides illustration.

Parallel to the Red’s freezing, longer shadows are cast by the pillars of the tall western facing windows of this riverhouse, as a rhythm of the sun’s intensity continues with only gravitational knowledge of this pale blue dot.

Scrub wood burns in the livingroom’s fireplace, two squirrelly dogs scrambling in the projected warmth, playing, learning about their own natures, the one recently added to contrast the other’s somber mood after being orphaned by Ruthie’s expiration.

Order and balance between the squirrel and the fox remain, both in an objectivist war of self-preservation, and while steering cautious of Darwin when outdoors, whether fox, eagle, or otherwise,  we share in the goal for unobfuscated survival.