Tuesday, April 27, 2004


Dusk growing, tiny bats swooping over the pond, whippoorwills calling over the din of the frogs, chickens bedded down for the night, not a breeze, not a cloud. A wonderfully noisy silence. Maybe the barred owls will be calling tonight.

Funny how in my meanderings around the continent I have wound up just a couple of hundred miles from where I started, contentedly settling down back amongst the old familiar wild things I had grown so bored with in my childhood.


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