Rowdy

8-25-19

It’s been quiet around the pond this week. The bear visits have dwindled to zero. We may get a couple more before they become less social and retire into the deeper woods until next year. Their annual reclusion. Our annual rejection. (sob) We now await the first of southbound water bird traffic. Our small enclave is on the main avian freeway south.

Three does continue to have a sunset snack along the north end of the pond near the ledge. They still wear their bright rust red summer coats. Reassurance that Jack Frost and his icy grip are still months away. I’m probably a bit jumpy on the subject. Jack seems to become more unfriendly as the years wane.

A spate of heavy rains has recently inspired a riot of mushrooms on the lawn and in nearby woods. Absolute ambrosia to deer of an epicurean bent. A small buck has discovered this and arrives near the porch almost every evening to sample the overnight yield. He seems oblivious of the three does on the opposite side of the pond. Makes me wonder if our little fungus garden includes a few mushrooms of a psychedelic persuasion. Imagine. A stoned deer. Hardly our intention to introduce local sylvan youth to the nether world of psilocybin. But what else would distract his mind from the chorus line on the opposite side of the pond? He usually finishes his feast a few feet from the porch. Tossing us an occasional glance that I interpret as a cross between guilt and apology. And–well–a little out of focus.

Yesterday morning greeted us with a large white egret on the opposite end of the pond. The first of it’s kind to favor our wet little world. It sat there looking like a large white undertaker while prospecting for breakfast. Drawing a blank, it took to the air, dropping a token of its disapproval as it left. Cursed mercenary.

High point of the week was a visit from our friend, John. John was accompanied by his beautiful little Shetland dog, Rowdy. Rowdy is 10 dog years old. 70 people years. Which makes him an old dog. Thus, we have much in common. We spent hours exchanging stories of the Elysian fields of our youth. Regrettably, I had nothing to match Rowdy’s stories of bounding after sheep on the heather covered moors of Scotland. Burying bones. Fetching sticks. Chasing butterflies. Pure doggerel.