First Light

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.

Unmarred by her accident,
this baby raccoon was beautiful.
Soft and small.

Click to enlarge

participating in Camera Critters

A Moment in Time

There are images that remain in my mind, filed in a special place, remembered for the impression they left upon me. Not a thing of particular beauty, but a moment that has escaped the ordinary.
So precious and rare, that even at the instant it occurred, it is known there will not be another like it.



The wooded ravine behind our house is home to a family of deer, walking the creek bed in all seasons, browsing leaves in spring and summer, hidden against the fallen brown of autumn. On a winter’s snow-covered backdrop, they become visible. And spend afternoons resting as a group, dotted upon the opposite bank.

Several years ago, they spent an afternoon there; while we, inside our house, looked out, pleased that the warm sunshine and still air would soon be welcoming spring. From time to time, one would stand and resettle herself a few yards to the side or start a game of tag with another young doe, bounding in circles, returning to rest. For the better part of the day they stayed, rooted to that spot, comfortably safe.

As evening approached, they rose to move on—all but one.
Her head gracefully laid back, the large doe that led them to this spot lay still, in the midst of her family, reclined in the sun. One by one, the others went to her, tentatively investigating her quietness--sniffing, nose-to-nose. They seemed to hesitate—unsure whether to stay, or go.
Then, slowly walked off into the woods.

Her body was still warm as I touched her—though her eyes were closed, chest still. Not a mark hinted of any trouble—perhaps she’d simply grown old.
Exactly when she’d died that sunny afternoon on the bank, we weren’t sure. But I wondered if she’d known her moment would be soon and brought her family to this spot to stay with her.

Over the next few days, we watched as her family returned to her side, with each pass through the creek bed, lingering there, sometimes resting with her, as they had days earlier.

By springtime, her body had returned to the earthen bank.



The path is worn daily, by deer seeking food, the cover of brush, the safety of the woods.
And behind the sycamore, is a perfect resting spot.