There
has been no sign of the chipmunks for three days, ever since the arctic front
seemed to herald an early winter. Likely they have retreated to their dens to
ride out the next season, spending the months in torpor and surviving off the
provender in their granaries. There are moments we envy this ability.
These
dens must be extensive, and I’m to understand that there are multiple entries
about. Evidently there are distinct chambers for sleeping and feeding, eating
and rearing, and so I imagine subterranean complexes all about the yard and
wood.
It
seems only yesterday that the chipmunks would taunt us in the back, perched on
the old stone wall that marks the beginning of the access road from the berm.
They would “cheep, cheep” loudly, calling to one another, then scurrying in
chase, tempting the dogs to pursue them into the hole in the wall.
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