From the rocking chair where I give my grandson his bottles, I look out my front door—all glass. Several times now I’ve noticed a red squirrel clinging head down to the trunk of the gigantic elm that shades my house. For all you yoga enthusiasts, I can describe the squirrel’s posture as cobra pose.

Cobra is difficult enough flat on the floor—lying on your tummy, hands under your shoulders, pushing your chest up and arching your neck backward. And then HOLD. The squirrel seems able to hold indefinitely. Since I’m always feeding the baby when I see him, I’ve been unable to jump up and snap a photo, but I have hope.

I’ve noticed another squirrel streaking up and down the tree. I recognize that one by its blond tail. I noticed it first before Mother’s Day and thought the other squirrels would bully it. I’d seen that happen on East Campus in Lincoln several years earlier. There the squirrel was black. Here, I thought I saw some nastiness at first, but the blond squirrel seems to have found acceptance.

Bruce is just beginning to focus on stark contrasts and movement, but I can hardly wait to start showing him squirrels. I remember how much fun I had showing my sons wildlife—until they became better spotters than me.