Leaves have fallen. Firs and Pines are winter’s solitary sentinels companied by silent Manzanita, their branches stilled. But, even in the sleep of cold and quiet, the earth below is awake and full. The cycle of Nature is ever moving. I am always reminded of Asa at this time because it was she who taught me how to count to twelve.

We met in autumn. She was an elderly female Ground Squirrel, one of many who live here, but, unlike others, had a head tilt. For some reason, she invited me to see her world, her point of view, sight and sense. Her mere presence compelled looking beyond the artifice of form, seeing beyond mere observation, dropping the veil of human privilege and journey into the common ground of just being alive.

In tacit agreement, Asa and I began to rendezvous every dusk. Soon, we were meeting regularly sharing morsels of baguette and berries and a glass of wine for me. The other Squirrels obviously understood the exclusive nature of our friendship as they never tried to partake of Asa’s fare.

During these sessions, Asa periodically retreated to her burrow to store some of her meal. After a few moments, she’d emerge and resume sitting beside where I sat. Our evenings of breaking bread continued until it was finally time to stay below and sleep. Come early spring, our ritual resumed. This continued for two years. That last fall, Asa’s visits shortened and became less predictable. Nonetheless, I kept vigil, sitting in our spot every dusk, glass in one hand, baguette in the other, waiting. One day, she did not return.

Winter was coming and the train of storms had begun to roll in. The Squirrel community had—as their name bespeaks—gone to ground. Since Ground Squirrels sometimes venture out briefly when the cold lifts, I always put a few berries and a piece of baguette at Asa’s door. Once, I was lucky enough to spot her darting out to retrieve her goods. She looked up —head tilted to one side, the upside eye meeting mine—then dragged the food in and disappeared. It was the last time I saw her.

I don’t know whether she died during or after hibernation. She might have been grabbed or dug out by a Fox or simply passed. I grieved for my lost friend. To this day, I mourn her. I hope when Asa and I meet again, I will have evolved to the fineness of her heart and mind.