It's been an introspective week, me preoccupied with my little life, doing no writing. Not that I haven't felt the impulse now and then -- I have. Now and then. Lasting only a nanosecond or two, so that if I spring into action immediately, (jamming adorable butt into chair, cranking 'puter up) the impulse fades.
I've carried the camera around some, though.
For instance -- this morning, far too early (spiderwebs everywhere):
Given that we're nearing the September/October cusp (how, I ask in genuine bewilderment, did that happen? It was just June!)(grumble, grumble), the first wave of Vermont's many autumn hunting seasons have hit, black bear and gray squirrel seasons currently in force. The local critters, needless to say, are looking distinctly nervous.
Taking a walk further up the hill yesterday afternoon, I came across a large clearing, surprising ten wild turkeys. The moment they spotted me, they immediately headed for the trees, making a comically phony show of going at a dignified, unhurried pace, gradually speeding up as they neared cover, finally sacrificing dignity for safety.
Early this morning -- far, far too early; before the sun had breached the line of the hills across the valley -- as I stood out in damp grass staring blurrily about, half-awake, pointing camera here and there, I heard a sudden loud snort, the kind of sound deer make when alarmed. Heard it again, saw three of them moving quickly away from me toward the property line, white tails visible in the dim light as they went. Looking to put distance between us.
Two, three hours later, I began hearing gunshots from somewhere down the hill. Loud enough to get me pulling on a sweatshirt, making a trip outside to see what was up. Every two or three minuts, another one, sounding like they were coming from around Mo's place. (See entry of July 14.) He's a dyed-in-the-wool hunter, Mo, despite his 83-year-old body's decreasing capacity to cavort through woods and meadows -- probably had a few cohorts over for some preparatory getting-into-the-spirit-of-the-season style activity.
The gunshots continued for the next hour or two.
Just part of the cycle of life in these parts.
Madrid, te echo de menos.
rws 9:16 AM [+]
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