I love living where we do.
This morning, in the early gray, just after the alarm clock went off, I found myself stretching lazily to the sound of geese flying overhead--non-migrating Canada geese. I see them gleaning in fresh-turned fields or in the stubble of newly-mown hayfields at nearby farms, together with the local wild turkeys.
Such a sweet, wild music, the song of wild geese.
Moments later, Peter urged me out of bed. "Oh! Come see! There's a bear--two bears, a mama and a cub in the back yard!"
And so there were. Ambling along quite unhurriedly at the edge of the woods, down to our partially-rehabilitated perennial bed. We crowded the bedroom window, watching them out of sight. (Judging by the size of mama, the bear I saw last fall must have been an adult male.)
We decided to let the dogs out late, today. We trust the fence we built for their yard, but there's no point in tempting fate.
Such a persistent miracle, a glimpse of wild thing, living their lives in parallel with our own. As I think I may have mentioned, I love our home.
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