Early morning, first light.
When sounds of the nighttime mix with those of the approaching day.
Birdsong from the woods, a Barred Owl’s questioning call in the distance—and persistent chattering and fussing from the yard below.
Our bedroom door, open, to the upstairs porch and the sounds of the waking fields and woods.
Our narrow road, close below, between them.
For quite some time it continued, as we lay warm beneath blankets, a disturbing, unsettling call that we decided must be a raccoon. One of many in this rural area.
Becoming pests in greater numbers to be sure, though I smile when I see the small hand-prints so like mine, left after a night’s diddling in the mud at the edge of the pond.
I fussed about inside, preparing for a day’s work.
The sound outside my door, now quiet.
Gone with the darkness.
Pulling slowly onto the narrow road, a few feet from our drive, a small someone lay still on the pavement.
How Mama must have fussed over her here, confused and scared.
While we slept beneath warm blankets.
Listening to the sounds of first light.
this baby raccoon was beautiful.
Soft and small.