And there they come, with jaws popping, a circle of them running, suddenly like a cult, descending on the desert brush.

I was on the hunt for a yellow-crowned night heron, a stalky bird in the beloved heron family, an active hunter at all hours of the day.

I scanned the wetlands for more turtles and birds and then noticed a small, sleepy face lifted just above the concavity. A raccoon!

A scraggly head poked up from the nest, and another, until all three mango colored bills were visible. They yawned at the great big sky.

She twists her head and stares at me with clouded eyes, then proceeds cautiously onto my skin, each movement meditated.

Soft wings slap my arms and face like miniature kites in the wind; ants bite my belly; but still I prefer this solitary space.

Middle Tennessee is a verdant wet, a palate of green dripping with spring and sugar.

I decided to start this blog to ask questions existential and rhetorical, to muse and marvel, and to share adventures into the wild.