Red-tailed Chipmunk

Red-tailed Chipmunk

It was one of those mornings when the sun sparkled like spilled sugar over the treetops, and the air felt like it had secrets. You wandered into a narrow, uphill park hemmed in by blackberry thickets and the rustle of small things.

You spotted the medallion jammed between two mossy stones at the base of a leaning cedar. As your fingers brushed the bronze surface—

“Ack! You touched it?! Ohhhh acorns, it’s happening again!”

A flash of russet and stripes zipped up the tree and peeked from behind a branch.

“You! You can hear me, can’t you? Of course you can. That’s why I had the dream. That’s why the dandelion spiraled counterclockwise. It all makes sense!”

The chipmunk darted down the trunk, skidding to a stop in front of you, fluffing his striped cheeks with importance.

“Right. Introductions. Let’s make it official. I’m Thistle. Just Thistle. Not ‘hey you’ or ‘rodent!’ And no, I’m not a squirrel. That’s like calling a violin a cello.”

He paced in frantic loops, tail bouncing like a broken metronome.

“I’ve been watching the medallions. Taking notes. Cross-referencing bark patterns. There’s a rhythm to where they show up, you know. Like—like cosmic hopscotch!”

You asked, “Where do you think they came from?”

He froze mid-scamper, then slowly turned.

“They say a giant fox whispered them into the world,” he said solemnly. “They say a sleeping raccoon dreamed them after eating too many fermented plums. But I think—ready?—they’re test beacons. Calibration units. Instruments of wildness regulation. Maybe even invitations to a secret council of woodland operatives. I mean, I haven’t been invited. Yet. But maybe you have!”

He leaned close.

“You’ve got the face of someone with a destiny.”

Then he twitched and bolted up your leg, paused on your shoulder, and declared, “Listen, if you find the mole, don’t believe anything he says about me and the espresso incident. That was not my fault.”

You tried to speak, but Thistle was already halfway up the cedar again, chattering down from the canopy.

“And whatever you do, don’t eat the yellow mushrooms near the third bench by the duck pond. They’ll make your thoughts smell like toast!”

He vanished in a flurry of bark and leaves, leaving behind only the echo of his voice and the faint scent of sunflower seeds.