There are wild turkeys behind my house, gobble-gobbling! They seem to know they’re in no danger of becoming Thanksgiving dinner. (Or Sadie’s dinner, either, though she barks at them with all the good-natured ferocity of any self-respecting beagle!) The deer visit, too–we have seen a doe with twin fawns occasionally, since spring. Now and then, there is even a moose–I’ve only caught a glimpse of one, since I write at the back of the house, looking out over my splendid draw full of dignified pine trees, and the mooses (meese?) seem to favor the ten acres of flat ground at the front.
The driveway is lined with young maples, now clad in spectacular gowns of yellow that will deepen to rust and crimson as autumn advances. The tall Aspens whisper among themselves, rustling a little in the cooler breezes. “Winter is coming,” they say to each other. But they are not afraid. They move so gracefully between one season and the next. How I missed the seasons when I was away.
Although I lived in Arizona for eight years, and am not as used to Northwest winters as my beloved pines and maples and aspens, I look forward to the snow. For we are old friends, the snow and I, eager to be reunited. I remember the way snow muffles the world and makes it peaceful. I remember that particular cast of the light. I remember waking and, before I’d even opened my eyes, knowing snow had come in the night, just by that certain singing quality in the air.
Oh, yes. I shall welcome the snow.
For I have, after years of wandering, returned at last to the place my heart has always called…HOME.
