Weekend Woods

The evening of my fortieth birthday was spent devouring homemade ravioli with the whole family. It was a perfect way to usher in the new decade. The icing on the cake, so to speak, was the moment we heard the children and their cousins call from Papa and Noni's backyard woods, "Five deer!!!" Well, you better believe I whipped out my camera. It was getting dusky, so I had trouble getting a great shot (I really wanted to capture them all), but you get the idea. My dad mentioned that there are two does and three fawns that visit often. The bucks are somewhere out there, but we rarely see them.

I had been standing motionless for so long, watching deer from the deck, that a hummingbird came right up to me and had a bit of a snack. Click. I love this about my parents' woodland home.

The next day, Sunday, was pleasantly warm and sunny. I stepped out for an afternoon walk, thinking I'd make it a brisk one. But the day begged for leisure. I slowed my pace and enjoyed taking in the familiar scenery around the wetlands.

"This is what I had come for, just this, and nothing more."

(Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek) 

The geese were out in full force. I counted twenty, the most I've ever seen at our pond.

Even the elusive Great Blue Heron was tip-toeing about, his long neck bobbing slowly up and down, back and forth. I hope to one day stay long enough to carefully observe his habits and routines. He usually keeps to the middle of the pond (if he comes at all), but he does sometimes venture toward land. I hope my camera is handy when he does.

As I wrapped up my stroll, I stood for a few minutes to watch and listen to the production the vireos seemed to be rehearsing in the trees. It was elaborate and poetic with a hint of frenzy. I was mesmerized to the point that I was quite startled when I heard a rustling in the grass near my feet. My first thought was . . . snake! But the sleek tail trailing through the tall grass reassured me. Another cat. This one was a bit more timid than the others I've met on the path. Can you tell?

I revised my final route, curious about one particular corner of the wetlands. I was treated to a stunning yellow bouquet, at the center of which was a busy little fellow. I couldn't help but think of the 1715 children's poem by Isaac Watts:

How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!

That little busy bee didn't know it was Sunday. He had work to do. But I knew what day it was, and I enjoyed the rest, the quiet. I finally glanced at the time and realized I'd been gone for nearly an hour. My feet turned homeward as my heart murmured thank you to my Father, the Creator of "each shining hour."