Furry Wombat

The katydids and crickets are loud. From the left, I hear shshshsshshsh shshshsSHSHSHSHSHSSHSHSHSHS shshshshshshshhsh, from the right chechechechchechecheCHECHECHECHECHE-CHE-CHE-CHE. Then the quieter hum of the bumblebees flying closer and then away, zzz zzzz ZZZZ zzzz. Oh! and here’s the loud, low hum of the hummingbirds zummmmm, ZUUUMMMMM with shimmery green feathers and a brilliant red chin.  And the whoo-wHOOO-whoo-whoo-whoo of the doves and the chirps of the bluejays  and chickadees. It’s been a long time since I was in an eastern forest. (oh! an indigo bunting!)  I’m on the back deck of my friends beautiful, unfinished house. There’s a tragedy here — a house that was built big for children they couldn’t conceive and a financial hangover from the effort.   But there’s salve in the low hum of life, busy with hummingbirds and katydids, and an over-ambitious gentleman’s farm with orchard and berry patch.   (There’s a goldfinch!)  Even the weedy plants are pretty — queen ann’s lace and chicory at the overgrown edge of the yard.   Up in the mountains a bit (perhaps 2000ft here?) it’s not as hot as the lowland suburbs where I grew up in northern VA.  It is humid, but not oppressive; thunderstorms are a possibility most afternoons.  There’s always a breeze.  My friend built this house with many, large of casement windows and no AC.  I sat on the couch yesterday afternoon, and it was breezy enough to imagine that I was outside if I closed my eyes.  And the butterflies!  One just alighted on the deck.

I return to my usual paradise tomorrow.