Twenty tastes funny.

I've taken it upon myself to be the Guard of the Forest. I monitor the pathway's density and evaluate the stream by its current. The squirrels check in to give me their weekly toll on life; they tell me how they've been treated and about the happenstance that escapes my visibility. I discuss intimate matters with the trees to make sure they're in order. They sigh stories that are within their breadth of sight. They groan and whine from the stress of such surveillance. I feel the burden of their responsibility and clasp their branches, expressing through touch my innermost condolences.

The snow crackles under the sunlight, merrily winking as it releases pressure on fall's moist and fragrant pelage. Ice runs thick with residual water, slipping into the sienna-tinctured stream. The nostalgic colors of winter regale on the departing season as they begin their gradual demise.

Here, where the squirrels cheekily twist their ankles away from me, amongst the trees that loom in forlorn wisdom, and inside the last precious gasps of breath escaping winter's lips, I am still but observant... ever-protective of my precious abode and its occupants.