I admire the trio of tiny squirrels scampering up the Julie mango trees, in the early morning sunshine, with the distant curtains of metallic mist looming above the lush Northern Range.
Bushy tails erect, dark eyes alert, the charming creatures emerge just after dawn each day, looking for fresh fallen fruits, and launching their brisk rounds in the rain-washed garden. They race through the sprawling, symmetrical canopy of the centuries-old samaan giant that dominates the muddy grounds and provides a cool refuge for dozens of tropical songbirds, humming insects, cascading ferns and big bromeliads.
Darting among the tallest branches, the squirrels flit as chirping, dark brown daredevils, dashing from drooping branches to the fat heads of pink feathery blossoms, ignoring my gasps and the predatory caracaras and majestic falcons that glide in to survey the animated landscape, which is a street away from a noisy Trinidad highway that never sleeps. By early evening as the rain/ “five o’clock” tree, monkey pod or “suar” prepares to drop thousands of stamen filaments, fold its leaves and tuck itself in for the night, the rodents disappear, back to their warm, hidden dens and cosy nests.
