Yesterday I crumbled a lone cornbread muffin next to the ditch that divides my yard from a wetland preserve. If I had kept it as a leftover, it would have achieved the density of a hockey puck overnight, so I offered it to the various critters who cross through my yard. This evening a visitor came back inquiring if more leftovers were forthcoming:
I wish I’d had my camera handy while he was standing on our patio. As the sun was setting, I considered that the raccoon’s visit could be a good omen for a sunset photo walk, so I went to the wetlands briefly to see what I’d find.
I did encounter someone wild who would have been safer at home, if only he had one:
He is feral, and I could come no closer during our first encounter. His new cauliflower ear tells me he is not the only tom cat patrolling the wetlands. He is cobby with sleek fur that rivals an Abyssinian cat. If only he had born into an indoor kingdom . . .
The wetlands are still waking up to spring. We’ve had three inches of rain in the past week. I wore my oldest pair of tennis shoes to cross through the silt and ditches en route to the preserve.
Intensity Without Mastery 