I saw a deer a day or two ago at the edge of the beaver pond. It has a place from where it likes to drink, on the far side, just beyond the beavers hut. I've been nicking the dam of late. To the rage of the builders. None-the-less it must be done. The deer has seen me and at first, with no undue hassle, ran away through the buffer zone and leapt the fence. But now, it doesn't even raise its head when I approach. It knows it is safe from me. The ducks and geese and their families glide across the pond as well as I watch. They too are safe, and while wary, seem to know it, and circle under my gaze.

I saw the moon rise, full and orange, warm and brilliant last evening. Oh, I've seen moon rises before. My favorite have been the ones that slip over the crest of the hill, bordering the farm. I'll see a dull glow far above my head at the black edge of the trees silhouetted against the night, and run to the perfect spot to watch it slide quietly into view. Sometimes I cheat and run down to the brook to be below the hill again, so I can watch it rise a second time. I count a hundred, and it is complete. A circle, silver. Cool. Lovely. But last night's moon was different. Huge. Thick. And bright orange. I'd never seen it rise there before. Nothing is ever quite the same in this place where I seem to stay the same myself. This place I rarely leave. Always to be. This place that is always different from itself.

I saw a great Horned Owl, a few days ago, as dusk narrowed into evening. Heard him first. The old familiar who who who who who. He was having a conversation with another owl. Somewhere in the woods across the road. He was perched, large and black against the nighttime sky, on the dead branch of an ash tree by the house. I'd never seen him before. But he or his relatives have comforted me, night times, calling outside of my window. Suddenly he flew away, towards a call still coming from the other owl.

I saw the egret today. A startling white against the gleam of the pond, and green of the side hill. I'd never seen him here before. Oh, last year, he seemed to live in the abandoned beaver pond next door, I'd look for him, when Ernest and I drove by coming from town. But he had never been
here, at least I'd never seen him. But every time we'd come home we'd look for the white spot, the spot that seemed constant, in the same place each day. It must have been his. Oh, he's moved. I said one day look he's farther over, closer to the woods. Ernest kept his eyes on the road most times, except when there were exceptional cows pasturing nearby. But he always knew how to look from the corner of his eye and would ask me every time. Is he still there? One day the bird was on a tree branch, close to the wall of the abandoned dam. We were surprised. And talked about it all the way back to the farm. And then, late summer, early fall he was gone.
I came upon a lamb today. A newborn. Only a half a day or so old. She was standing on some pebbles in a low part of the creek. The water gleamed around her feet. She bent down to take a sip. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. I knew who her dam might be, but not where she was. She made a neat bundle in my arms. A pretty little thing. Big. Nicely formed. With the East Fresian in her face. Her mother is huge. Healthy looking and beautiful. But her lamb shall be mine. A bottle lamb. For me.

I saw myself in a mirror yesterday. Thinner than I think I am. Thinner than I was when I first came here. To my surprise. I do love cream and butter. My hands aren't nice anymore. And I am getting my
grandfather's starbursts around the edges of my eyes. I loved them so around his. And I can laugh more quickly at the thought of it. It does delight me. For I am the same. I am the same.