For several days, I watched from my windows as the wind sent falling and fallen leaves into frenzies, blowing them in great swaths across parking lots and lawns, whipping them into mini cyclones along the streets, depositing them into drifts across roadways, and tucking them into places where one never finds fallen leaves. Add to that all the dropped branches and tipped-over trees and it was yet another instance of nature madly rearranging the furniture. And who was there among us to stop her?

Once things had settled down, I went out to survey the landscape, and the pile of leaves I came upon not far from my door seemed to fit the scenario of the recent maelstrom. At first glance, it appeared to be nothing more than a bunch of leaves clumped together in a big heap on the ground, not an unusual sight after such a powerful storm and such damaging winds.

I didn’t think much of it, at least not at first. But after a few more days of stiff breezes, that clump of leaves was still holding together pretty securely, so I knew there was more to it than what I could see from a distance.

It turned out, upon closer inspection, to be a fairly large nest of some sort. And judging by the materials used in its construction, I’m pretty sure it had once been home to a family of squirrels. There are plenty of crows hereabouts, as well as other large birds. But crows typically use lots or larger sticks to build their nests, interweaving them for sturdiness and lining them with softer materials such as moss, bits of string, or whatever else they find in their travels.

I’ve observed squirrels building nests and am always amazed at how hard they work at it, running up and down tree trunks and along branches, over and over again all day long, transporting materials that include primarily dead leaves, clumps of grass, and small twigs. And this is exactly what I saw as I looked down at what was left of that nest, amazed at how such a seeming mishmash of materials could have held together long enough to withstand the rigors of bearing and raising a brood of young until they were ready to greet the world.

But as sloppy an abode as a squirrel’s nest appears to be, there is a surprising orderliness and symmetry to its construction, as I saw before a few crows came along to peck at this particular nest perhaps in the hope of finding something good to eat inside. Despite their best efforts, they had a time of it, as the tightly woven structure of nature’s castoffs didn’t come apart easily. I myself was tempted to nudge it with my shoe, but thought better of it and simply walked away.

It occurred to me how none of us is ever safe from the extremes that the weather is capable of. Much as our own worlds can literally come crashing down around us during high winds and powerful storms, so do those of other creatures, particularly those that make their homes in the uppermost reaches of the taller trees, near low-lying flood-prone areas, along steep embankments subject to collapse, or along the sea’s rocky shores.

I doubt there is any way of knowing just how many different creatures succumb to and are displaced by the weather’s extremes, for their tragedies occur much more quietly and unnoticed than do ours. But are they any less tragic, and are those hapless species anymore prepared than we are to deal with the aftermath?

The tangle of leaves and twigs I came upon that day had once been home to one such creature and her young. Judging by the condition of the materials in that particular nest, whose twigs were still pliable and leaves still intact, it had been lived in not that long ago, perhaps in anticipation of a new brood. Hopefully, Mrs. Squirrel had moved on by the time her shelter came crashing to the ground and had managed to secure more suitable lodgings.

Wherever that may be, I hope the landlord doesn’t evict her again anytime soon. But with nature, you just never know, and it is that unpredictability that all of us, human and squirrel alike, must always be ready for.