She looked at ease in the garden, as if she belonged there, relishing her raspberry breakfast...
...checking to make sure she hadn't missed anything.
The small raised garden is west of the house, just a few yards below the deck off the kitchen.
Don built it years ago out of railroad ties, and over time, it has had many productive seasons.
This isn't one of them. At least, not for us.
Seeing a deer in the garden was not a surprise, but it seemed rather bold of her to be there in broad daylight.
I stepped out on the deck, and she paused mid-bite and looked up at me, as if to say,
"Just whose garden do you think this is, anyway?"
You know, she might have had a point, which raises the age old question:
Does a garden belong to the one who plants it,
or the one who harvests it?
