Much of our property grows wild.
And, aside from the few gardens bordering the house, is left to its own devices. The vines of the woods, trumpet creeper, wild grape, and Virginia Creeper, grow freely, draping themselves in sheets from the tops of the trees. Knitting their branches into the canopy beyond our door.
At times, I’m envious of the homes bounded by the more trimmed yards.
Their color-coordinated beds of flowers.
Their beautiful landscapes so demanding of time.
This afternoon, after walking our trails under passing clouds, searching the fields and woods for the migrant warblers, I returned to the house, disappointed. And sat for a moment on a sun-warmed stone on the river rock wall of my herb garden.
Several feet beyond, an unruly vine wrapped its winding way through a small tree—poison ivy.
The reaching arms bare of its fallen red leaves, and now bearing fruit, small white berries.
And Yellow-Rumped Warblers.
What we lack in order, we make up for in vigor.