Oops

We were called into town by the dry and the heat and the stench of open bins, corner pile ups, and the composts of the township gardeners. The slothful uprights that discarded near whole items gave way to an oasis for us nocturnal marsupial types. The same heat and dry that took the ponds and the creeks, and crisped the once soft chutes and bushes, now made us fools for the city. Many of my kin has fallen victim to machines running at high speeds, or the ricocheting of heat from the gray and black walkways of our new confines. Some of us have found refuge in the yards or the suburbs, ever after cores and scraps.

Among those lucky, I wait in the waves of heat and stink to watch from a browning canopy. There’s some shade still, but maybe after another moon or two, this shelter will be bare. Bare before the sun even begins to calm. Below me a mine of rot and rind, abuzz with gnats and flies, teases me. There’s enough reward in here to feed me and mine, and a few others, if I feel up to sharing.

This has been a regular spot for me, I haven’t shown the others. Confident in my chosen space of secrecy, I drift in and out of naps, remaining still until the night comes. There are two that patrol on four legs, slinking and stalking at the base of my tower. They smell me, I know it. Not to worry, I remain allusive, and they’ll have to go in for bedtime, at some point. When they do, and the sun disappears, I’ll make my way into the depths to retrieve the unwanted materials. I don’t think the two-legged creatures mind, each time I return, there’s more. Sometimes the pieces are bigger, or whole even.

The sky is now dimming, and my vision is clearing. Just a few more rounds about the yard and up to the base of my hold, then those four-pawed softies will head inside with their two-legged keepers. I endure the last moments of their whines and growls as they pace, and at last, they are called to return. Meals and beds prepared, they’ve never known this raw life of night and theft, of wild survival. For good measure, I wait for total absence of sun, and for the moon to sit above my canopy. I pad from limb to trunk, tail affixed to the branch. I am lowering, pausing, wanting to ensure I am alone. Within the bowels beneath me rests a whole melon. I’ve had my eyes on it all day. It has only been slightly spoiled from the industry of the ants. Fascinating creatures, and tasty too. It’s too much for me to hoist back into the tree, so I’ll have to break it up, make a few trips over the rear of the bend, and hide it between there and the fence. The ants won’t like it, I’ll get stung for sure, but I’ll snack on a few whilst going about the work.

Low and slow. I am nearing the peak of this refuse mountain, the melon still in my sights, but nearer the foothills of waste. I can taste the sweet rot, the anticipation rising as I drop lower and lower, and crack goes the branch, it’s giving under my weight. I begin to fall before I can get a single mitt on the ant swarmed shell… another snap. What is this? The larger of the four-legged guards emerges from the adjacent bush and, like a cannonball, it smashes into the side of my tower, knocking free my loose and frantic grip, thud goes my body. I lie still, not issuing a breath. The melon is right beside me. Both laying still and silent, and both covered in ants. Pad, pad, pad, pant, pant, pant… the watcher is over me, and studying. Don’t move, don’t breathe… it knows.

The jowls are opening as it sniffs me over and around, and nibbles at my ears and tail. It jumps back, though I’m certain I have not moved… I know what I am doing. The nose and mouth return, the panting more labored, the breath hotter. I wince, and then, that’s it. The first bite breaks into me, and I am lifted. Before the shaking begins, I see a pile of orange slices and apple cores that were within reach of the tree… I should’ve grabbed them instead… oops.