I’m standing at the edge of the woods, where the snow has finally retreated into patchy veils over the leaf litter, and the air feels softer, almost warm. It’s one of those March days that tricks me into thinking spring has truly arrived, even though I know better. My boots sink slightly into the damp earth, and I close my eyes, breathing in the rich, loamy scent of thawing soil.
Then, I hear it—a sharp, staccato chit-chit-chit. My eyes snap open, and I catch the flash of tawny fur darting between the still-bare brambles. A chipmunk! It pauses on a fallen log, its striped back taut and its round eyes bright. The little creature puffs out its cheeks and scolds the world, as if declaring its triumphant return.
There’s something about this first chipmunk sighting that tugs at me. Maybe it’s the way this tiny, brave soul can make the forest feel alive again. I stay still, watching as it dives into the shadows, tail flicking behind it, and I imagine the hidden world it returns to—the labyrinth beneath my feet.
Chipmunks are meticulous architects. Their burrows can stretch up to 30 feet long, a twisting maze of tunnels and chambers. There are specific rooms for nesting, for storing food, even a designated latrine—no mess, no waste. The entrances are small and camouflaged, barely more than an inconspicuous hole beneath the roots of a tree or under a pile of stones. I wonder how many burrows I’ve walked over without knowing.
Unlike many rodents, chipmunks don’t fully hibernate. Instead, they enter a state of torpor, slowing their heart rate and lowering their body temperature, but not entirely surrendering to sleep. They wake periodically throughout winter, snuggled in their nests, to snack on the seeds and nuts they’ve carefully hoarded during the fall. I picture them down there, nibbling in the dark, the pantry of their burrow brimming with acorns and sunflower seeds.
The chipmunk I’ve just seen has likely emerged to test the air, to see if it’s worth beginning the business of spring. Soon, it will be scurrying through the underbrush, filling its cheek pouches with fresh treasures. It will dig shallow pits to stash new food, though only some of these caches are meant to be found again—the rest are a kind of accidental gift to the forest, planting seeds that may sprout into new life.
As I walk back toward the house, I keep an ear out for more chittering, hoping this brave little ambassador of spring is not alone. And I feel lighter somehow, knowing that beneath the brown leaves and the damp earth, life has been quietly waiting, ready to burst forth at the first sign of warmth.
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