Eat or Be Eaten

On this Sunday morn, of the 72 eggs I left at Tweets on Thursday, how many are left, or did the crowd who descended on Edison yesterday finish them all off? Customers from all over the world sojourn to Tweets. By this morning, the digested eggs laid by chickens in this peaceful patch of woods could be the flesh of rejuvenated customers getting off planes in Dubai, Sydney, or Cape Town. Could be, you know.

The sweet daphne is close to blooming and scenting the air with its dreamy fragrance. I love the scent of gardenias, but it is too cold for gardenias here. Sweet daphne’s perfume is just as heady, a scent so heavy you can float on it.

Each day the daffodil buds stretch ever higher. Soon the buds will be lemon yellow and ready to pop open.

A gift of many bags of pine needles is now a soft trail in the woodland. The pine tree these pine needles dropped from is a towering giant which sloughs off needles constantly. The friend who patiently sweeps these needles up says a gift awaits me every three to four months.

Yesterday our neighbor texted us that a neighbor warned them of a cougar in the area. Was it that cougar who scared some of our chickens two days ago? Something made a handful of them fly over the fence and run down the driveway. I found a few feathers from the spot where the chickens scattered, but no chickens were missing when I closed them up that night, and if it was a cougar it disappeared in a flash.

It gives me pause about walking the trails, or going into the woods to deal with the fallen trees, but I doubt a cougar would find a man carrying a chainsaw inviting. I don’t think a cougar would approach a man with a chainsaw running, making a racket, and sending a cloud of chips flying as he cuts into fallen tree trunks.

Well, if this post goes permanently quiet, you’ll know where I am, in the belly of a cougar plodding on soft, pine needle laden trails.

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