We waited for dusk to see the owls, and two arrived together. We think this is the brother and sister team that forged a friendship when he helped her learn to fly. Every night they stop in together, and sit on the same branch. Earlier in the day was a flourishing of red tailed hawk juveniles flying low over the fields and then back to home base.
It is sometimes hard to remember we lived anywhere else. Nothing going on seems ridiculously satisfying. We don't even object to the impossibly endless list of chores.
Today pea gravel went down in the drive and a space was made for parking. Four years ago Sunday when we were handed the keys, this is exactly how I thought it would be.
Lily has not been herself, but today she and Sam romped like they used to, making the rounds first to the ground squirrel holes, then curiously watching the workers tending the sunflowers, and finally having a good game of chase with sticks in their mouths. They spent the evening sacked out.
Life breathes here, in the branches and the feeders and the old metal wheels with no place to go. It is in the quiet of all this life where unrealized dreams percolate.
