There are several routes into town and often I take the one past the cemetery, on the eastern perimeter. I'm drawn to it but there is always some reason not to stop: it's too cold, there are too many other things to get done before going home again, the mosquitoes will be bad and I have no repellent along or am not dressed properly.

Yesterday I decided to just do it, and let everything else wait. I dropped Everett off at his piano lesson, went to a service station and bought a cup of hot coffee, then drove back to the graveyard, parked and began to stroll past the tombstones. What had looked like a beautiful day when I was out of the wind soon let me know that I'd regret leaving my warm jacket at home, so I didn't stay more than a half-hour. But I did, upon recognizing the odd name on a headstone, greet the person whose remains were underneath. I don't think there's anyone there, but ... this is what happened, anyway.

Three two-foot garter snakes sunning themselves in a pond of dry leaves among the graves just about made me jump out of my skin. It's not that they scare me, but the sound of them stirring (considering jumping out of their skins, I imagine) at my approach took me by surprise.

Last weekend while filling wall-washing pails at the kitchen sink, I was excited to gaze out the window and see one coasting hawk and several large flocks of geese flying past. This afternoon, I sat in front of the picture window at Golden Grain Farm and realized how much sky can be seen above the caragana hedge. Today there were three hawks, redtails probably, circling in the cloud-studded blue sky. One circled lazily right over the house, giving me a closeup view of his underfeathers.

I could have cried. We get to see this from our living room window! How lucky is that. A gal could forget about the hour, by cracky. However, the empty house echoes like a cathedral so I yodelled — hey, I would if I could — for a while and came home to start supper.

This is me, making supper.
It doesn't sound convincing, does it.

There is a pair of Canada geese on the slough (I should call it a "pond" so it sounds nicer, eh?) visible from the step, the porch and all the south windows. My fingers are crossed that they are nesting there. The other day I was watching them from the porch window when another pair flew in over the border of trees along the edge of the slough, dipped down to land in the water, and moseyed onto the small grassy island to make the acquaintance of the resident two. That didn't go over well. A kaffuffle ensued and the intruders (really though, who could tell which was which) soon left in a huff, honking their displeasure.

There are also numerous smaller waterfowl on the slough. As soon as we get a warm day I am going to steal an hour to sit nearby with my binoculars and admire them all.

I am proofreading a trapper's memoir these days and enjoying his stories of surviving in the bush many decades ago. He says, "You can't sneak up on a goose." Now I know. Not that I'd want to piss off one of those formidable birds by getting too close for comfort.