The other night I bore witness to a temporary mystery. For a few brief moments, I thought that there was magic in the world when a streak flashed by in the nighttime floods as I was waiting for Ernie to eliminate. It cruised by obviously, neither bird nor bat, crashed into the tulip poplar and quickly scurried upward to safety. What was it? A relative of Puck who somehow I alone could see like the lead character in Matt Ruff's "
Fool on the Hill". The world was a magical place for a few brief moments, until I went upstairs and Meghann said it was probably a flying squirrel; which it was. A quick trip to Wikipedia confirmed that not only is the
southern flying squirrel native to my clime, but also is nocturnal and bears colors that are similar to those that whizzed by. I emailed my mom to tell her and she reminded me of a story from my youth about another flying squirrel that we disrupted when clearing trees for a new pool.
But nevertheless, the world is a magic place. There are squirrels with patagium under their armpits that allow them to whiz about in the nighttime sky. There is a system of computers that circle the globe that allow me to confirm this and communicate with loved ones with a few short keystrokes and clicks. There is that distant memory of a tree cut down and the brave little (northern) flying squirrel that carried each of her young away from the wreckage while curious young eyes looked on in wonder.