Mountain Lion Hollow

It's good to see the sun after several gloomy days, which had closed in on us like grey felt in a flower press. The hunting season finally over, Barley and I have taken to walking in the hollow below our house. Where the trail makes its final descent into the hollow, winterberry trees have put on their Christmas decorations, bright red candy-colored balls. Birds flee at our approach, receding as waves into an ocean of weeds, or wildflowers, depending on one's perspective. I stand still, holding my breath, and the birds return, one by one, drawn by the fruit, devouring the ornaments like a child who can't wait for Christmas.

Barley holds his breath, too, standing motionless several paces behind me.

The hollow is quiet this morning, except for the twitter of birds, but this place is not always without drama. One October, in the early morning dark, Don walked down the trail and set up with his bow in a tree facing the valley, overlooking the creek. As the first rays of light streamed across the hollow, he noticed movement in the tall amber colored weeds, about 75 yards away. He fixed his gaze on the area for a short time before a tail appeared, swishing slowly back and forth. Then the steely eyes of a mountain lion came into focus, staring straight at him. A chill went down his spine.

Don remembers thinking that he’s always preferred to deer hunt alone. It was more true that day than ever before. Looking down at his bow, he calculated his chances of getting off a clean shot at a charging cat. Not good. He decided to begin his retreat. Then, if the mountain lion charged, he’d have time to get his back against a large tree and pull out his hunting knife. He got his feet on the ground and took one step sideways up the hill, keeping an eye on the path, and one on the predator below. The mountain lion didn’t move. Its tail twitched, but its eyes were steady.

Don continued to sidle up the hill, judging, with each step, the distance to the next tree. He was home before he could breathe easy. 

I think about that mountain lion once in a while when Barley and I are walking in the hollow, and my fingers tighten, momentarily, on the knife in my pocket.

Linking with Saturday's Critters
and
 Wild Bird Wednesday

Co-inhabitants

Every once in a while, when we start thinking that this place where we live belongs to us, 

we are reminded that our opinion is not universal.

Most mornings lately, four Eastern Wild Turkey gobblers have been gathering on our back patio.

They like the convenience of fresh water (or sometimes ice) in the birdbath, a chance to admire their reflections in the window glass, and the exceptional acoustics. If volume had anything to do with ownership, when they gobble, they would have the deed to the house in their feathery back pocket. The turkeys retreat a little when we pass by the windows, but seem only mildly inconvenienced by the other occupants of this place, namely us. Their forebears, after all, were here long before ours were.
 
Before dawn yesterday morning, Don watched a skunk saunter away from the back of the house, while a fat raccoon sat in the bird feeder, eating a bedtime snack. We've been wondering why the bird feed disappeared so fast, and now we know that it's been going to two more residents.

              

In the summer, a mother raccoon and her two kits would come in the evenings to eat... 

...before climbing up to their nursery in a large oak tree behind the house. 

In the nighttime, the place belonged to them.

Deer have always been occupants of our woods. 

Of the seven we see regularly, one button buck has taken to the dog kennel, and helps himself to fallen acorns. 

We see the larger bucks less frequently, but in the shelter of the darkness, they may consider this place their own, too.

Barley is the only four-legged creature with a key to the house.

So far.

Linking with Saturday's Critters
and Wild Bird Wednesday

Morning Fog

Morning fog alters the atmosphere, washing out the background, and painting the foreground in simple shapes.

Not even a falling leaf makes a sound on the dampened earth.

A young doe stands at attention and listens...

...while a buck sniffs the air, depending on non-visual cues.

The ancient oak seems to listen, too, leaning into the fog.
What does he hear?

Linking with Saturday's Critters

Full Moon

Linking with Skywatch Friday

Everlasting Arms

A family in our church hosted a fish fry last night. When we drove through the countryside to their hilltop place, so tantalizing was the aroma that we probably could have found it blindfolded. After we were satiated with delicious food, the musicians pulled out their instruments, and we gathered our chairs around and sang until the stars came out.

A lot of the songs were old, familiar hymns: "I'll Fly Away", "Amazing Grace", "Farther Along", and one that always stirs my memory, "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms".

When I was four, and my sister, Jan, was eleven, she gave me her favorite book, Small Rain, which I still treasure. Now long out of print, it has verses of Scripture, beautifully illustrated by Elizabeth Orton Jones. The last two pages illustrate a verse from Deuteronomy:

The Lord is thy keeper.

The eternal God is thy refuge,

and underneath are the everlasting arms.
Deut 33:27

I remember my Mother reading to me from that book at bedtime. In the daytime, her voice often filled our home with melody, and the song that came from that verse, "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms", was often on her lips.

The night mom died, her family gathered around her bedside and sang hymns, much like we did last night. We held her thin hands and sang into the night, searching our memory for her favorites. With faltering breath, she lingered, and I wonder now if she was waiting for one more song, one last message of comfort that she could leave with us. There was one more, of course. It was the same song we sang last night, about the God whose Everlasting Arms shelter His children. When we sang it, my dear mother flew away to heaven.

When she left, the peace in the room was so pervasive it was almost tangible. Those Arms that held my mother, were also holding us.