13 Ògmhios, 2024 Take The Time To Look

My wife Jackie and I live a quiet rural lifestyle in far northwestern Minnesota surrounded by fen and woodland, unimpeded sky overhead, and dark sandy loam soil  below. Creek water that flooded a low spot after an heavy rain is slowly absorbed by the soil; sometimes, if one listens closely one can hear the mud sigh as the last of it disappears.

A robin sings, perhaps because they have eggs in their nest. Two mourning doves feed together in yesterday's new-mowed grass. Several bluejays peck for seed beneath a bird feeder; there are red-winged blackbirds feeding near them.

A woodchuck peers cautiously from beneath the storage shed as two chipmunks dash carelessly about beneath parked cars. A dragonfly awaiting a tasty mosquito alights on a bamboo stick that Jackie had stuck in the ground yesterday just for that purpose. Perfect timing.

Just about the time when things couldn't get more exciting in Palmville, I saw the silhouette of a yearling deer standing in the shadows below the leaf-laden branches of three birch trees. Unafraid, it looked over its left shoulder at something, for considerable time, then left its shelter under the trees to go in the direction of what it had sighted, only to quickly return at a trot, to its former position.

The deer slowly turned east from the birches and walked down the old Beaver Dam Trail to the deer crossing there opposite Oak Point, stopping just a moment to cautiously check things out. Then it walked down the submerged south slope there, descended into the water and ascended the opposite shore with its body glistening; I did not see it shake. Never stopping, the yearling casually walked into a shallow water-filled depression there, then further on into a thick stand of willows straight away from our house, and immediately became so camouflaged that had we not observed it enter, we may have overlooked it.

"Look a baby fawn!" Jackie exclaimed, looking north where a doe and its brand new fawn stood, the fawn teetering on its four newly-discovered legs. "You know, the way she looks and acts, I wonder if she's going to birth another." And with that, the doe whisked the fawn into the woods. Gone.

"I'll bet this deer is her yearling that she chased away so she could birth this fawn. Wait, there's another deer coming ..."

A similar-sized deer emerged from the woods adjoining the fen and entered the thigh-high sedge grass, its attention completely toward the opposite bank; it too acted without signs of apprehension or suspicion of danger. The first deer didn't approach the newcomer. Thinking a moment, I wondered aloud if they weren't her twins from last year, when Jackie affirmed seeing a doe, with twins,  frequently last fall.

The second deer hurriedly crossed the creek and went into the woods close to where the doe and fawn went in together -- only to whirl back into the yard in a short minute and across the creek, likely having been 'persuaded' by the totally-impatient doe, still in labor or building quickly toward it. The deer in the willows, just as hurriedly, dashed up the creek bank and disappeared into the woods, not requiring to be told twice.

Such observations have taught me to alter my immediate outdoor activities and respect such goings -on, at least momentarily. Writing, napping, or reading are substantially quieter activities than lawn mowing, target shooting, weed trimming, or four-wheeling that I'd normally do on such nice days. Hope the doe appreciated it.