She nodded off a few minutes ago, her head falling heavy against me. Her breathing is steady and slow, and she snores just the tiniest bit. It’s been a long day for her.

Her hair is a mess over her shoulders, and her eyelashes flutter, quick and dark. Her cheeks are round, full and flushed, as if she has stored acorns in them to prepare for her hibernation upon my arm.

In the spring, she spoke with a voice that knew more than it let on. She raised her arms and roared, trampling tiny villages that I couldn’t see. Her face was tense and stoic as she pondered how to survive in the forest amongst the bigger, louder creatures and the trees that were too tall to climb. But when she laid down on my lap and told me she missed me, I began to stroke her hair and her whole body went slack. She became domesticated under my touch and dozed off without worrying about predators.


In the fall, the trees passed us by, their colors melting and blurring like a watercolor portrait held up to a candle. Sometimes she forgot what she was supposed to be doing, and sometimes she told me stories of great battles she had won. I had supposed that she was trying to impress me, but I also think that maybe she was trying to justify her spot in the food chain of the forest.

But now she’s asleep on my shoulder, and we’re on our way home. And I know that when we get there she’ll wake up. And when she leaves, she’ll grow up. I don’t want her to be a predator, but I don’t want her to be the prey, either. I want her to thrive and to live out on her own. But I hope that every once in a while, she’ll come around to my backyard and curl up against my shoulder to keep away from the snowflakes.