This moment is all that exists. As far as I can tell, it’s all that ever has. In this particular moment I sit in the same place I have for millions (billions?) of ticks. In this universe. The Milky Way. On Earth. On some dry land known as North America. In the great state of Michigan. Up north, as it’s referred. On the far side of town. In some woods we chopped. In a house we built. In the living room we remodeled. At the desk I designed. I stare at a retina screen that quickly fades into the peripheral as the light peaks out, a rare occurrence in the depth of northern Michigan winters. I notice a small chipmunk trying his best to raid a fresh batch of sunflower seeds in the feeder outside a double window. But I am human. And I have outsmarted him. The editorial I. With a contraption my father brought over, along with the custom bird home he built, the post digger he had, and the pole he bought. He walked back to his truck and returned with a smooth metal cylinder, which he slid over the pole. It’s welded shut at the top, but left open at the bottom. “Squirrel stopper,” he said, as I looked at him curiously. We mounted the device and then the feeder. He grabbed a ladder, filled it with seed, talked weather, said an Irish goodbye, and waved as he drove off. This is how he communicates. If he had said anything else, it probably would have been: “It’s going to be ok, son.” Now Chippy, as he is now known, has grown into something like a pet to me, although he doesn’t bark to come in or go out, which I prefer. I like dogs, but prefer the freedom of not owning a dog. I like cats, but found out the hard way I am allergic. I like fish, but would prefer to bump up against them while I’m swimming in the Great Lake. Rather, Chippy is a friend. We just sort of coexist on the same small plot of land. He has an insatiable thirst for seeds. The land provides everything he needs to sustain his family. Or rather, it did. His chipmunk babe and their chipmunk babies run, gather what they can, and play in the yard and woods from the first sign of light in the spring until the sun disappears in winter. He’s seen me dancing alone in the yard and quietly sat with me on the porch during some of my lower moments. I likely coaxed him onto the porch with a handful of those intoxicating black seeds he simply can’t resist. I watch as he easily defies gravity, climbing the pole and disappearing in the narrow dark space between the pole and the outside of the cylinder. It must be pitch black as he bumps up against the top of the squirrel stopper. There is nowhere else to go but back down. A few moments later he pops out and holds eerily still, staring up at the feeder. I can sense his wheels spinning. He climbs a nearby tree, tempts fate on a flimsy branch, rises higher—and I reel in anticipation of a twenty-something-foot leap to the feeder. I briefly reminisce about my childhood obsession with flying squirrels. He never jumps. He lacks wings. The funniest part? At the base of the pole sits a small planter pot full of sunflower seeds I set aside just for him. I sense the same friction I often feel at my keyboard—moving, adjusting, striving, never quite in sync, rarely in flow. And if our places were reversed, I know he’d leave seeds out for me. I also know it wouldn’t be enough. I’d still be staring at that feeder, dreaming of that mother load, mumbling about the one tree in the forest I can’t climb… and wondering if he’s laughing at me. Off to work!