We are inundated with wildlife now. The foxes have mated and the female is prowling around, looking for food to nourish her body; the eagles have mated and are building up their nests; the deer are in the pastures in droves; the geese are flying overhead. Soon, the bears will emerge from their hibernation.
We will see them in the back field, attacking ant hills. We will feel protective of the newborn fawns hiding in the pine plantation.
In the midst of all this, I walk.
As a writer who spends most of her time alone, I appreciate the company of others, even if they are wild animals who don't seek my company. Just knowing they are watching, listening is enough for me to feel not alone when I walk in what is, truly, their territory.
|Two eagles, post "encounter". Top and on the left, in the shadow.|
Back in the woods, the beavers are reappearing as the ice melts away. The young dog and I walked up the road to the beaver pond formed when they clogged the culvert and flooded the road. No sign of life under the smooth, dark water but they have been busy.
|The tree felled over the road for its branches.|
|One route out of the water near the shore.|
|Two "access holes" with the denuded branches tossed out like toothpicks|
minus the cocktail sausage.
|Tracks to and from the snack bar, er, tree.|
|Baby beaver or raccoon?|
As a writer, I relate to beavers more than any other wild animal. They are persistent, constantly creating, always maintaining, rebuilding when necessary. They keep to themselves, content to live and work in isolation, doing what they do best, even if others don't appreciate their work, the fruits of their labour, the point of their existence.
I leave my own calling card -- my footprints at the edge of the ice -- so they know that I, too, am emerging from my own den to soak up the energy of spring.