In nature, nothing is ever wasted. So I have long pondered the reason that many oak leaves remain on the branches long after they’ve died and withered. Of all the possibilities ranging from the tree hating to part with its last leaves to their serving some sort of nutritional purpose through the winter months, I finally hit upon one concrete explanation as I watched a squirrel hard at work harvesting them. At first, it appeared that it was just foraging for food and maybe nibbling on the oak leaves for lack of more appealing sustenance. But I was wrong, and this fact was borne out when I picked up my binoculars to get a closer look at what that little gray creature was up to.

A constant fixture outside this window is an old bent oak tree, that I call the Bowing Lady, whose trunk is partially hollowed out. At the area that I call its rump, there seems to be some sort of entryway that the squirrels use all year long, but more so now that winter is upon us. Farther down, the tree’s ancient wizened trunk is split wide open, which provides yet more shelter. But it is into this first entryway that I have been watching the squirrel move, as it has obviously been lining its nest with the oak leaves.

Perching first on a branch to apparently survey all the possibilities, the squirrel then springs into action, leaping to a higher branch, if need be, or dropping down to a lower limb where it labors to separate a clump of leaves from a larger twig. Several times, it reaches out a small paw to steady the branch, choosing only the fullest clusters or the largest single leaves that it can find. Dissatisfied with one, it moves on to the next and the next; and then, rather than just drag the leaf or leaves back to the nest, the squirrel proceeds to cram as much of them as it can into its small mouth to make for a more efficient mode of transport. The process goes on for some time until it finally decides to take a break and to indulge another squirrel in a game of tag up and down the tree’s trunk as well as those of other nearby trees.

Finally, all activity ceases, and I realize that housekeeping has been set up for the next seasonal round, and there are far fewer oak leaves left on the old bent tree now. Interestingly enough, however, another nearby much younger and healthier oak, still has most of its leaves attached; but I never once saw the squirrel harvesting any of those. It seemed to prefer the tree that had the least number of leaves left, perhaps because they were easier to get at than the denser ones. I really have no idea. While I might understand somewhat how my cat thinks, I’ve yet to get a grip on how a squirrel processes information other than what it’s thinking as it is devouring the bird seed from my feeders.

This brings me back to the whole concept of the winter experience for the wild creatures that populate these and many other such woods and fields. It’s a tough life under the best of circumstances, one of never-ending toil to find and store food, brave the elements, and evade the threats that present themselves in the form of larger predators, meteorological events, electrical wires, and disease. From the warm and cozy confines of my loft, I watch with ever increasing respect and reverence as the birds, squirrels, turkeys and other wildlife roam evermore far and wide toward a single end: survival. With manic determination and speed, the squirrels comb every inch of the frozen ground for some acorn they might have buried in October; and they raid whatever other sources of food they can find. Meanwhile, woodpeckers vie constantly for a spot at the suet cakes, facing down the blue jays and each other, in the process. I’ve lost track of all the confrontations I’ve witnessed right outside my door as large numbers of them compete for what little there is out there.

Suffering and hardship are ways of life in nature, and this is where the concept of survival of the fittest applies. To the victor always go the spoils, yet it is not done in a spirit of maliciousness but merely one of staying alive. And wild animals do whatever it takes to make sure they get their share of the bounty. Often of a night, I’ve driven past some darkened woods and have wondered what’s hiding there, if it has enough to eat, if it’s warm and safe. And I find myself straining for them toward the dawn when the light will once again make their lot a bit easier, a bit less formidable.

On the coldest days, I will continue to toss out whatever I can in the form of stale bread or grains that have been lingering in my cupboard forgotten and that might be put to better use by those sitting perched on branches on snowy wet frigid days, waiting. Gratitude, a purely human response, is most likely not part of a squirrel’s or crow’s programming. But it is mine, and one I experience each wintry day for the ability to perhaps make these creatures’ winter lives a bit more bearable.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at [email protected].