waiting for flying squirrels

We sat in the woods in the February twilight as the naturalist ran the feeder down and up a tree, trying to lure flying squirrels from their nests with the pulley squeak. Nothing. The cold nosed about, finding every seam on my coat, squirming its way in. The wind picked up. Again, the feeder flew down and up the tree. Unlikely they'd appear tonight, inhibited by the sound of the wind which masks the noise of predators. Mauve clouds slid across the graying sky, still a stark backdrop to the swaying trees, the rush of wind, and the moment came clear, alive. Breathing, relaxing into the cold, the night. A final feeder squeak, this time a successful lure, and the night gliders appeared.