I was walking back from the post office when I come across a circle of three dozen or so people all staring up, forming a cone composed of a point spectacle above the forty foot diameter circle below of vertices of pairs of eyes. I involuntarily began a larger, concentric circle in my investigation of the source of attention, and found the tip of the cone to be a common North American squirrel, who I have named Trevor, helplessly gripping a bent twig with his two front feet. With overlooked life or popularized death surrounding this ill-situated rodent, a sea of smiles observes curiously below. The furry victim of gravity’s gravity is rapidly tiring, his desperate attempts at making a life saving pull-up only shaking the bent twig, swaying his mass about. Almost all of the leaves on this tree have died and fallen, and Trevor ceases his fight and is still, screaming potential energy. I direct my attention downward to the crowd. The smiling. When they are helplessly gripping their seats with incapable hands, swaying to and fro with the turbulence of a catastrophic aeronautical plummet, holding onto the possibility that soon they will be pulling themselves free of the bent wreckage, must they look through the porthole to the rapidly approaching smiles? I pivot and depart, in respect for Trevor and in shame for the grinning circle, and when I hear two or three people give brief applause and see the rest disappointedly continue to wherever they were heading, it is my turn to smile.