A Crumb to Share

A Chipmunk Fable by Forest Moss

In early spring, when maples drip,

And robins take their morning sip—

When puddles catch the greening rain,

Acorn Chipmunk dashed down Meadow Lane.

He zigged and zagged past lilac spray,

His thoughts on pie, not work or play.

Behind the hedge near Forest’s gate,

Three peanuts sat upon a plate.

He squeaked with joy and bowed with pride—

Two in his cheeks, one set aside.

He sniffed the third, then gave a pout:

“Too nice to eat,” he tucked it out.

Then off he dashed—a streak, a blur—

He startled gnats and brushed a fir.

He spooked a frog who gave a croak,

A mourning dove beneath an oak.

He zipped past wrens, kicked mossy bark,

And scampered where the trail grew dark.

Down where the dogwood petals fall,

Beneath an alder’s leaning wall,

He found a crate—old, sunken, deep—

Where shadows held a fragrant sleep.

A pie sat there, a cherry round,

With golden crust and vine-wrapped mound.

One slice was gone. A note lay near—

Its letters smudged but mostly clear:

“Justice means fair slices spread—

Not by might, but heart instead.”

His tail flicked up. His whiskers twitched.

His cheek pouches grew slightly stitched.

He crept in close. “One bite,” he thought—

“But who’s to say that I was caught?”

Just then from left, a shadow grew—

Maple the Goose stepped into view.

She arched her neck and calmly spoke,

“That slice you eye? It’s not a joke.”

He puffed his cheeks. His stance went small.

“Oh, I just checked for pie recall—

Historic bits. Or bits that moved.

For freshness. Yes. The crust approved.”

Then Beaver thumped in with a frown,

His boots still slick with tunnel brown.

“I chomped that log! I built the path!

That means I get the biggest half!”

Lantern a firefly zipped in with dreamy gleam,

Still glowing from a half-spun dream.

“I lit the trail! The pie saw me—

That counts as baking, technically.”

They argued loud. They flared and fussed—

Until a voice rose up and hushed:

“My paws are small. My voice is thin...

But fairness doesn’t shout to win.”

From on the stump, he stood quite grand—

A sunflower seed lodged near his gland.

It must have slipped while rushing out—

Now twitching deep inside his snout.

One paw raised high, one on his chest,

He cleared his throat and gave his best:

“I didn’t bake this pie,” he said,

“But I recall what someone fed.

The one who leaves me food each day—

He doesn’t hoard or hide or sway.

He sets it down, then walks away—

And never asks for who should pay.”

“Justice means fair slices spread—

Not by might, but heart instead.”

They paused. Then nodded, one by one—

Each knowing now what must be done.

They sliced it fair, then passed around,

Each paw or beak with equal mound.

And though the pie was dry and old,

Its sharing made it taste like gold.

Maple squawked, “Your speech was neat—

But maybe lose the snack you eat?”

He wiggled snout, then gave a sneeze—

The sunflower seed shot through the breeze!

It pinged off Beaver, bounced on bark,

Then landed in the meadow dark.

As thrushes sang their evening tune,

And sky turned soft with whispering moon,

Forest Moss strolled past the stone—

Not watched, not praised, just left alone.

He set out peanuts, three in line—

One cracked, one salted, one just fine.

Acorn bowed and took his share—

A final crumb clutched with care.

He didn’t eat it—not that night—

He buried it by fading light.

“Not by might, but heart instead—

A crumb to bloom when I’ve long fled.

And maybe one spring, by root or rain,

It feeds the next who walks this lane.”