by Cliff Simon

Recently I had a sudden realization that the clammy summer heat had been blessedly replaced by the welcome brisk air of autumn. The light had been maneuvering to a shallower angle for several days, so that traveling east in the morning hours, the abrupt glare forced me to lower the sun visor as I drove from my house. And then this morning, sitting on the porch swing reading, I put the book down as I often do so I could observe the natural world around me. I seem to prefer nature that way, rather than actually being in it, either walking or hiking. From my porch, I take in more because there are fewer distractions, and the view of nature becomes focused and intimate, like watching a play or movie. I also feel safer, like being in my personal cocoon.

I’ve spent more time out here this summer than usual because my planned trips were abruptly cancelled, compliments of the virus. So rather than traveling to New York with two of my students to take in some plays we’ve been clamoring to see, and then after traveling back home to Alabama, instead of flying with my husband Julian to Portland, Oregon to visit with our good friends and revisit the exquisite coastal beauty there, we stayed at home. Travel was not to be. But now I was given, as a much welcomed and needed consolation prize, more time to spend on my precious swing and porch, where life is perfect. And a lot cheaper.

Placing the book on my lap today, I experienced that familiar first cool breeze of fall, and looking outside the porch screen, I witnessed a sweet narrative of our local animal kingdom. Just five feet from where I sat, a young squirrel appeared intent on climbing an old, leaning tree with a sizeable deep gouge in it that any small local beast would find enticing. Just when he seemed ready to dash to the top of the trunk, he quickly stopped, turned around, surveyed the area, and stood stark still, his paws clutching the bark. He wasn't frozen, really, nor was he fearful or self-protecting, but what I observed was a  juvenile kind of playfulness, with the squirrel darting left, right, stopping, and starting like all young creatures seem to do.

On the porch with me, my oversized male cat, Oscar, was sleeping comfortably on an old, weather-worn Adirondack chair that we’d brought to Alabama 20 years ago. He was near snoring, which is not unusual because of his sinus issues, and took no interest in the squirrel. But my other cat, Millie his sister, the delicate, often airborne sweet female who could turn viperous in a quick minute, was in a pre-attack crouch under the chair on which her brother dreamed, her eyes intent on the squirrel. Neither moved, but the cute little rodent (if there is such a thing) was quite still, in a joyous, wide-eyed kind of way. I’m not sure if it saw Millie, though it is what animals do, isn’t it, notice predators? From her posture I felt for sure that she might pounce any minute, if not for the screen separating them, supplying her with a momentary swagger.

All at once, a red cardinal flew through the air landing on the patio, on recently fallen leaves from the tree where the squirrel still held its stunned-looking taxidermic stance. The bird hopped around on the concrete snacking on some tasty seeds amongst the leaves. Millie didn’t care; she had (literally) bigger fish to fry, her eyes so emblazoned on the squirrel, the contented yet inert statue on the tree trunk.

Then as if I’d snapped my fingers, the squirrel flew off the tree and headed straight towards my prostrate and focused female cat. I got pretty nervous because I find nature very upsetting sometimes, so unpredictable. Math is easier for me to take, because two and two always equal four. Always. Anyway, the squirrel leaped to within a foot of Millie, her tightened haunches swaying left and right, in that typical butt movement prelude to a pounce and attack. I admonished the squirrel, What are you doing? Get away from there. Don’t you get it, kid?  And amazingly it stopped; but just as quickly resumed the run.

Meanwhile, the bird was still pecking at some remaining seeds and as it did, its red pelt flickered with some brilliant sunlight and caught the squirrel’s eye, because he/she/it turned to look at it, and then in what seemed like a nanosecond, it sped away from the screen, the cats and the bird, and disappeared somewhere in the dense patches of ivy that ring my property, as if life had just become too much of a challenge, maybe an annoyance, or it could be it was just time for a nap. The cardinal also seemed to take the cue, having had its fill of seeds, and flew away, as my female cat relaxed, finding herself bored again, and retreated through the cat door back into the house from whence she came, while Oscar continued to snore on the chair totally content.

I moved my swing into motion a little with a small nudge from one of my feet, picked up my book, but before I looked down to read from where I’d stopped, I took that moment to realize that missing those trips to the east and west coasts were, in the end, okay, because I had such a fine time with my cats, squirrel, bird, swing, book and the lovely smell of the fresh air in Birmingham, Alabama on the day that autumn arrived.

Cliff Simon has designed hand-painted cakes since the late '70's, in New York, San Francisco, Austin and Santa Fe. Presently he teaches Scenic Design at UAB, designs at regional theatres and continues to bake, paint and write, the medium that has always helped him better understand life. Learn more at http://www.cliffcakes.com