It was an early Monday morning, fresh from the evening rain. Little birds and squirrels played on the dewy trees, children, ever oblivious of nature around them played beneath the old, powerful trees. The park beneath the window was full of shining green, like an over-exponated photo of some part of the endless Amazon jungle.

There was a playground in the park, right below the window. Most of the children there were in that horrible age of five when they finally realise that they have a will of their own, and use it. Their laughter was interrupted at times by the loud crying of a child that got hurt during play, but it was always silenced by the comfort of some mother unseen from such height.

The open window allowed the fresh air to enter with the brisk winds that always predicted a storm. The electricity in the air was felt by all, and even though is was clear and sunny in the far aboves, almost every stroller and flaneur carried an umbrella. Elegant people carried small, coloured umbrellas, easily concealed and just expensive enough not to be missed once forgotten in some stylish club or restaurant. Respectably dressed people, mostly men over thirty-five, carried long black umbrellas, the more European ones even using it as some sort of cane, swinging it about and taking support from it as an old fashioned gentleman would.

The simple people carried the most fascinating ones, though. The ingenuity of citch and cheapness always outshines the modesty of style and elegance.

Some carried big umbrellas with advertisement messages on them, as if they wanted God or the angels to buy the Marlboro Lights and the Heineken beers. Others wanted to show the Almighty their love and allegiance: Big colourful umbrellas reading "The BIG Apple" and "Borne in New York" kept popping up with some frequency.

Some people didn’t carry these heavenly artpieces, though. Some people just put light, transparent plastics over their perambulators, and, not wanting their babies to feel alone, went along wearing capes of the same kind.

As the morning grew late, the peace of the park was soon disrupted by the endless flow of cars and bikes, shiny Harleys and heavy trucks that invaded the silent road by the park. The freshness of the air slowly disappeared, giving room for the more typical smell of the big metropolitan city. This was in the order of things: Nature had been invited to the city, and when the city needed to be left alone, the park, like any good guest, had to step away.

The vitalised noise of children slowly died away, and the only sound that could interrupt the sound of the pulsating traffic was that of some dog barking, happy with the short stroll that his two-legged pack-mate had gone to take.

It was then that the accident happened. The last few mothers in the park, still invisible from above, were slowly preparing for their return to the warm and dull comfort of home, the first dog-owners had began their quarrels with the same mothers about whether it was the dogs or the children that needed education and manners with how to handle the other. Of course, neither dogs nor children understood what the great fuss was about, but both parties were concerned anyway.

It was when a notably loud and noisy Harley, one of those with the long forwards, raced by, that a child saw the overture of the incident. An eagle, a rare sight so far into the city, had suddenly started to dive, aiming at some invisible prey in one of the trees. The child succeeded to get his mothers attention (not without earning her annoyance, since she was deep into some discussion or other with another mother), just as a rapid, panicked movement was seen in the wild bushes far above in the tree. The children, and the two mothers involved in the discussion, could, with some doubt, make out the typical red furriness of a squirrel, running about in the hights of the tree. It seemed more alarmed with the sudden change of tone in the noises below than anything else, moving into a position where he could see the ground and the potential threats from it better, unaware of that he had just made his predator’s job so much easier. The terrified children, however, could easily see the powerful shade in the sky, hovering towards them, towards the nervous little squirrel and towards the death of the little creature. One mother rapidly braced her child, so that she couldn’t see the realities of life, and the others must have thought doing the same, but the scene was too thrilling, too horrible, too exciting to allow any movement.

The eagle sank with the grace and dignity of a destroyer, certain of his cause.

The children couldn’t breathe, their tiny hearts beating with a primal wildness, and with the fear of reality being far harsher, far crueller than their limited experience had allowed them to suspect.

The eagle was now a giant dragon behind the terrified rodent, his wings stretched out to slow its impact, eyes and talons fixated on the unwilling prey.

Then, just as in a moment of miracle, the squirrel moved. Perhaps his broad eye had seen the danger coming, awaiting with remarkable coolness the right moment for evasive action, perhaps he had sensed the danger in the very last heartbeat, perhaps he was just as lucky as the unsuspecting often are in times of danger.

The eagle nearly crashed into the thick branch, he had to spend precious moments regaining balance and power to keep himself in the air. His talons’ impact on the branch had effects, though.

The heavy bird of prey put the entire branch in sudden movement, and the poor squirrel, escaping further out on the branch, found himself standing on a rocking road. The inexperienced children below could see the red furrball desperately struggle for balance, then, losing it, crash down to the unyielding asphalt below.

The moment seemed like hours. The little reddish body twisted and turned and fought in the air, as if it hoped that it would somehow enable him to fly. Then, when he was painfully close to the ground, he disappeared behind the thin metal fence. The brakes of a car was heard, and none of the children would ever forget the incident in their lives. But it was worse for the little girl who didn’t see it all, for she had to imagine it again and again in her inexperienced young mind.

For while the girl saw the little thing crash into the ground, the children who did see the accident found the animal bouncing off the roof of a classy, red convertible. Its two black eyes looked about, confused about its present situation (like most people in the same situation, it must have wondered if it was dead), but the driver of the red sports-car soon put an end to that, as he began screaming and yelling about the buffoons who threw "whatever junk" from their windows.

This frightened the squirrel just as much as the impact had the driver, and it jumped off the soft roof with the agility that only squirrels have. Only a couple of children could testify to that the little squirrel, thought horrible smashed to the ground, had finally escaped into the safety of the trees.