Watching them scurry is exhausting. Their industriousness makes it impossible to focus on my own work.
Oddly enough, they seem equally interested in me–stopping on their way from the shed to the field (and back again)–to perch on the stonewall or the clothesline to study my stillness.
“How does she sit there all day?” they ask themselves.
“Shouldn’t she be out collecting acorns for her family?”
In the face of their judgment, I consider Paris.
No doubt French squirrels mind their own business.