Forager on Wheels

Forager on Wheels – A Springtime Love Story

Squirrel wasn’t usually nervous. Fast, yes. Hungry, always. But nervous? Rare. And yet, as he packed his tiny satchel and checked his bike for the third time, his paws fidgeted. It was Hazel’s fault, really. Or maybe not fault. Hazel was just... different. Quiet in the way forests are quiet—still, but full of meaning. She gathered seeds like she was arranging poetry. She smiled with her whole face but never too long. And she smelled like crushed mint leaves and warm moss. It made his brain forget where he was going. Frequently.

He had seen her every few days near the edge of the garden trail. Never in a rush. Never startled. Always present. The opposite of him, really. And still, somehow, when she looked at him and nodded her little head in greeting, it felt like being chosen. He had wanted to say something—anything—but words scrambled in his throat like too many acorns in a bucket.

So today, he would speak a different language: flowers.

He set out early, basket tied snug, and pedaled with intention. He wasn’t just collecting anything. These had to be Hazel-worthy. Not the loudest or the showiest, but the ones that spoke softly—the kind with petals curled like questions, with stems that smelled like rain. He paused often, sniffing, selecting, rejecting. He even doubled back once when he remembered a cluster of tiny bluebells she had admired the week before.

By midday, his basket was full and his courage... tentative. He rode in slow circles near her usual spot, ears twitching, heart racing. What if she wasn’t there? What if she was? What if he forgot how to speak again?

But she was there. Sitting on a flat rock, scribbling in a notebook with one paw, a tiny sprig of clover tucked behind her ear. He stopped short—too short. His bike tipped slightly, and he caught himself with a squeaky shuffle. She looked up.

“Hi,” she said, simple and soft.

“Hi,” he echoed, far less graceful. “I, um…” He held out the basket.

Hazel blinked, then looked at the flowers. Really looked. She smiled—not fast, not big. Just enough. “These are beautiful,” she said.

He nodded. “They reminded me of you.”

She closed her notebook. “Want to sit for a bit?”

He did. Very much. So he did.

They sat in the hush of the trail for a long while. No scripts. No plans. Just the scent of pine and petals between them. And when the breeze stirred the flowers in the basket, neither of them moved to stop it.