I like working in the garden. There is a certain joy to seeing a straight, weed-free row of cabbages. But there is something particularly delightful about harvesting directly from the brushy, uncultivated land.
This time of year, when berries are ripe, I spend a great deal of time in brushy, uncultivated land: communing with the gurgling river, the wayward butterflies, the plump berries, and the ticks that seem to find a distinct pleasure in my sweaty, sticky, thorn-pricked flesh.
But these make it worth it.
Last week, as I was walking back to pick some blackberries, I startled a doe and her two fawns. The doe ran promptly through the creek and one of the fawns kept its head and followed her. But the other fawn ran straight towards me, instead. I stood quietly. He came up about ten feet away, but he didn’t notice me, being far more interested in the location of his mother. As he scampered back and forth, I marveled at his dainty hooves and deep, sparkly eyes. He was clearly frightened and, to my surprise, he made distinct mewing sounds. Finally he found his way across the creek.
Later that day, I found a duck and her single duckling paddling about in the creek. A heron solemnly flapped its way along. And then the snapping turtle splashing in the pool by the rapids.
And later, walking home in the rain, I sensed a bird flying over me. But there were actually eight birds: pure white, lovely. They looked rather like herons, with long white necks and dangly legs. I don’t know what type they were, because I’ve never seen a bird like that here, and suddenly there were eight of them, flying on swift, silent wings through the rain. And I gaped at them, clutching my bowls of blackberries in wonder.
Such are the pleasures of the prickly wild.
