Oh, the cold, cold of brumality, the cold of deepest winter.  It is gripping the Midwest at the moment, gripping it firmly, gripping it tenaciously.  It is not likely to let go anytime soon.
     Left over from our autumn decorations are several corn cobs.  Yesterday I set out a few for the squirrels who, despite frigid temperatures, continue to venture out in search of, I presume, food and adventure (though more likely the former!).  Not many minutes passed until one cob was gone, its captor scampering out of the yard, on its way to its, as a children's book I read to my kids puts it, "leafy dray."  Soon, I noticed another squirrel munching away at a second ear, its razor sharp teeth (the same teeth that seem able to bite through even the steel housing of a bird feeder) making short work of the frozen kernels.
     Were I in a wilderness area, in no way would I feed the animals.  I would let them be themselves, being who they have been for centuries and centuries more.  Most of them survive.  Out of the mountains, however, I see it differently.  Although I suspect most of the birds and squirrels would survive whether or not I set out for food for them, I like being able to supplement their meager winter diets.  I enjoy seeing them roam and flit about our yard.
     Centuries ago, St. Francis, patron saint of many lovers of the outdoors, foundation of a day Episcopalians set as aside as The Blessing of the Animals, and the name from which the current Catholic pope drew his, famously tended to the animals whom he encountered.  He delighted in feeding whom he considered to be fellow creatures of God.
     As can we.  Far away from the pristine landscapes of the American wilderness yet very much ensconced in the love and affections of God, we rejoice that we can use our bounty to feed and nurture the earth.
     We may be human, but we are animals, too.  As God sees it, we must share the earth.