They eat all of it, every year, all my fruit: apricots in spring, pomegranates in September before they’re even ripe; guava, persimmons. Last year, I got the persimmons, all three of them. Must not have recognized them.
Yes, there you are, all dusty, you dirt digger. I’ve shot prettier: your cousin, the tree squirrel; at least a dozen, Mr. Ground Squirrel.
It didn’t help. It doesn’t help. Traps or poison, that’s the way to go. Can’t sit out there 24/7, but poison, it never quits.
I’m inside and the window’s closed; and he’s got his back to me.
What if I just think at him?
Hell-ooo? Picture-thoughts… For a second, I see the house, then the window… oh shit, there’s his chirping from the other day, coming back to me.
Would you look at that? He’s turning around, walking a branch towards me. Hello. Now he can see me. See my movement, my head-bob.
He’s definitely of a new batch. The others would flee at the slightest. He’s just looking.
All right. Whatever. You live.