This spring is fuller than others, at least recently, with trees large with deep green leaves, roots deep. House wren are active, two younguns learn to fly on their first day out of their nest, and by days end are well practiced.  And for many, summer heat comes early.

Yet in the Hinterland, a mid morning cool air and breezy wind has me paused, pecking on some garden spaces, I pitch the gathered trimmings to the top of a long grass surrounded burn pile collected over seasons, where a young fawn jets out, dashes, then stops alongside a large fern bed and a sheltering box elder. Her days are only a few, her coat scattered spotty and bright, spunky like Rudolf, and carefully interested in my slow approach. 

Talking to animals, mammals and birds, having quiet conversations, is my long standing practice. The fawn listens, her ears seeming to flicker at certain tones, eyes big and focused, curious, but careful of and considerate to all the motion on this grassy and treed floodway. In my next step towards her, she flinches, looking up at the huge protecting tree, so young, a gregarious squirrel scatters, as she remains, hooves planted in tended grass. 

“Where is your mother, are you alone, she must be nearby” I voiced while scanning the horizon, and sensed that she was alone, as the long grasses near the burn pile were freshly matted from her slumber.  “Where is your ma, little one, where is she now?”   We chat only a minute longer, the sky blue, when she chases down one of several deer trails towards the river, in a good gait, healthy and grateful for her mother’s sustained tutelage and unity.