Around Sunrise

You put on shoes before descending the stairs. When you open the basement door, the question marks of their tails pass by, one solid gray, one pastel orange. The brothers race up the stairs and beat you to the deck door. You open it slowly, so as not to bump their eager noses. You know it’s risky letting the cats out this early, but you tell yourself you’ll watch them. The long winter will be here soon enough; they need to enjoy the summer. You shake kibble into their bowls.

Their water bowl is dirty because the raccoon has washed his hands. He could go down to the pond, but this is his circuit, his routine, maybe his luxury. In the kitchen, you rinse the bowl and refill it with crystal-clear water, but you know Max and Grayboy won't touch it. They drink from the dripping hose, or rainwater collected in random containers, or from the pond—anywhere but from the bowl. They yearn to be feral, to be part of the wild animal kingdom.

You heat a mug of water in the microwave and unload the dishwasher. You’re always amazed at how much you can accomplish in two minutes; yet when you lie awake at night, hours pass by quickly. You add a drop of lemon essential oil to the hot water.

On the deck, you inhale deeply. The large valerian on the slope behind the salad garden is laden with tiny white flowers and it fills the air with perfume. The garden is surrounded with a short wire mesh fence. Visitors always express doubt that it will keep out deer, at which point you assure them it’s to keep out the cats.

The wood thrush vocalizes from deep in the forest. He is always the first to sing, and it is his flute-like trill that drew you out of bed. A bat squeaks beneath the hemlock siding of the house. You yawn, sloshing lemon water on your pajamas.

Coyotes yip in the distance, celebrating a kill. You swat a mosquito, step down the deck stairs and see Max crouched on the grass, chewing on something. Setting down your mug, you discover the victim is a baby bird. It’s dead and there’s nothing to do. You scold Max and he runs away. You scold yourself for letting him out when birds are most vulnerable. You’re amazed at what damage can occur in two minutes.

A spider has drowned in your lemon water, so you toss the mug contents on the grass. That’s when you notice that in the night, a deer has come close to the house and nipped the flowers from your runner beans and grazed the tops of your strawberries. At least it didn’t jump the salad garden fence, but it’s probably just a matter of time.

The sight of the dead bird reminds you to locate Max to ensure he hasn’t discovered a nest. You stroll toward the field above the pond, followed closely by Grayboy, who has never killed anything, and who never wanders without a human escort. The woods host coyotes and bears and bobcats and foxes, which he fears. You wonder if he knows them by sight, or only by scent.

In the unfenced garden where you planted marigolds to discourage bugs from eating your tomato plants, the raccoon has upended the flowers while searching the soft dirt for earthworms. Several plants are wilted, their roots exposed. You run back to the house and fill a bucket from the hose. A weasel disappears into the ferns. A large black snake winds between the irises. With all these predators, you're amazed there are any birds left at all. You haul the heavy bucket down the driveway, almost stepping on a bright orange salamander. You replant the marigolds and water them deeply. You notice a cat turd in the dirt, or maybe it’s a raccoon turd. You wonder if eating food from this garden will hasten your demise. You’re also aware that it’s ridiculous to stand around at sunrise, analyzing turds.

You lure Max and Grayboy back inside, lock them in the basement, return to bed and dream of winter.