Published four years after her death, Emily Dickenson’s poem This is My Letter to the World captures a sense of her chosen personal isolation and her connection with the intimacies of the natural world. This is a time when we need to all explore the realm and the depth of ourselves…soul, body and mind.
Earlier in the day, at the edge of the river and before the weather changed, I was pretty certain, as I have been for days, that there is at least one egg at the nest. Mom is clearly in the nest bowl, her tail raised and resting on her brood patch, while Dad is slightly out of view, but present. None of my photos are crisp, given my inability to zoom extensively, but keep in mind that I make observations of nature and I’m not knowledgeable as a photographer. These are archival in their publication.
I stood alone on an embankment, a shelf just above the dark river water and saw the female eagle at 4:00 last evening. I believe that the incubation for, at least, the first egg has begun. Mother was well down into the bowl and then suddenly lifted up and out and straight toward me, suddenly arching down and piercing a duck. All others flew up wildly out of the water while the powerful raptor circled around. She came around to the evening ice and scooped, out of the water, the limp body of the Common Golden Eye. I was stunned at the enormous beauty and power of the experience.
Before returning to the nest, she flew a wide victory circle, clamping her talons around what remained of her trophy.
Yesterday morning, at the edge of the Bow River, I met the new female Bald Eagle. I’ve been observing for the same nest for six years. I’m uncertain, still, about what happened to Mrs., the older female that had raised several young successfully over the years. She was a powerful bird, but last year, was looking a little haggard. From what I’ve read, she would have been either killed or pushed out of the territory by a younger female eagle. It is the way of youth and age.
This photo archives the last evening that I observed Mr. and Mrs. together at the Bow. The female is always slightly larger in breadth than the male. She is sitting on the left.
The photo, below, is from one of the last series I took of our Mrs., this after a series that showed that likely she had an injury to the talons on her left leg.
A young four/five year old appeared out of nowhere soon after, replacing Mom, in her amazing efforts to raise and feed the newly fledged juveniles. I took to calling her ‘the huntress’ because she had such a remarkable speed and was so generous in providing food for the two juveniles. I never captured a clear photograph of her with my Canon Powershot, but will see if I can’t get permission to post a friend’s photograph later.
The juveniles, now a year old, if they have managed through the winter, are now called Immature Eagles. They show slight mottling of the brown feathers and a little bit of yellow coming into their steely blue-grey beaks. I think that only one remains, but not really certain because after six weeks with the adults, they are pushed out of the hunting territory and forced to hunt on their own. I’ve made several sightings this winter of an Immature Eagle and also a two year old that is likely the one surviving fledge from the 2018 nest. Only 2% of Bald Eagles make it through their first winter.
A huge cold snap locked Calgary into -40 temperatures (with wind chill) for over a week and during that time, the huntress disappeared, although I made several sightings of Mr.
Then, something curious happened. Several of the Bow River birders and photographers were posting photographs of a new raptor, easily identifiable by her beautiful streamlined head and beak. My first observation of her was at a great distance above the river, looking down at her feeding on a deer carcass with an Immature eagle.
And now…I arrive at the ‘wonder and awe’ theme. Yesterday morning, I arrived at the river’s edge while the weather was still a melt. The wind blew ferociously the night before and melting snow puddled the banks and the pathways. I spotted her immediately and archived several amazing moments as this beautiful new female brought two large branches to build up railings at the nest. Shortly after, she and Mr. began to hunt together, soaring in circles, flying south, then returning to me until finally, she landed in a branch on my side of the river and with a good view of hundreds of Common Goldeneyes that were gathered too close for their own good.
My mouth dropped and I quickly started snapping photos. Three times, she left and returned, each time swooping low above the alarmed birds and then returning. This new female Bald Eagle is incredible and it will be a fantastic year, watching any nesting outcomes. Clearly younger, she is sleek looking and is very powerful.
I wasn’t going to write today, but here I am, a glass of Malbec to my right, and so much to think about.
Today would have been my brother’s 66th birthday. I turn 65 in May. He and I were so very close. It pains me that we didn’t share as much in our later years. He became a private man. Still, we made time to share good meals with friends. We enjoyed live music together. We were both very proud of our city. I love all of the growing-up memories of John. He was sometimes rebellious. He was robust. He was quite a live wire. I like the memories of him grilling steaks and burgers. He knew what he was doing there.
I have been thinking about John all week. Birthdays celebrated with families are so special. He should be here to celebrate with us. Now, he is ‘with us in spirit’. That’s something people say…but words like that just crack open my heart and cause it to bleed, all over again. I feel bad for people who try to make just the right remarks when you’ve lost someone you deeply love. I’ve often been one of those people. Let’s face it, there are no really helpful words. Best to just say ‘I’m sorry’. I don’t blame or judge people for things that they’ve tried to say. I know that their intentions are good. Grief does weird unbelievable things to a person. There’s no real understanding it. I miss John, though, every day…just as I miss my mother.
Family went out for lunch together. I liked being with John’s son. We were ‘hospice buddies’ and call ourselves that to this day. There’s no way that one can know what that experience is like until one might find themselves living it. I take a moment as I’m typing and lift a prayer for families who are in the midst of all of this. I take a moment and pray for the beautiful hearts who give palliative and then hospice care…and the nurses…the doctors. A tear drops.
Our family was the very best through the pain of losing John. If family does work. We did our best work through that time.
My grandson broke out into a lively version of happy birthday when he received his vanilla ice cream on dry ice. He even got the part about ‘Uncle Johnny’. His timing was impeccable. A Moxie’s lunch to celebrate my brother was the perfect choice.
From the lunch and our good-byes, I had to head right for the river. For one thing, the temperature was steadily moving up and was -11 when I pulled up in front of the house. I can clear my head at the river. Through John’s last months, I always felt uplifted while at the river’s edge, even on particularly difficult days.
I first walked along the bank in a north west direction. Across from me, the beauty and tranquility of deer and geese. After five days of -30 to -40 temperatures and a bad wind chill, it seemed that all of nature was breathing deeply in and breathing deeply out. Such a lovely thing. Interestingly enough, in the icy times of winter, I always notice that the deer consume the geese droppings. Such was the case today. Vegetation must be minimal by now and what better way to consume some nutrition! Nature cares for itself in so many different ways.
Once heading south on the path, I experienced the most remarkable moment! In a flash, a coyote rushed out of the tall grass and a deer bound into the frozen river. The coyote lurched to a stop on the very edge of the ice. I was frozen…couldn’t move…didn’t even think about capturing the moment on my camera. Too late, I recorded the deer’s challenging swim and its exit from the cold water. I watched until it found its way, some distance, up onto the bank. It wobbled on the ice and then bolted for the cover of the brush.
I was relieved but remember pausing to wonder how all of the beautiful creatures that inhabit the river valley manage to eek out a living.
Continuing on my hike, I was mindful that the coyotes are hungry. I figured that if one coyote came out of the brush, there were others. They work diligently together in order to eat, especially in these circumstances of frigid temperatures. Above me, to the left, I saw two. Do you want to observe a coyote? Listen for the Corvids (Magpies, Crows and Ravens) because all follow close behind the predators.
I was pleased to observe this young beauty consuming something. It was either a rabbit or a pheasant. I could hear the pheasants articulating in the high brush as I made my way south. Looking closer, a Raven decided to peck away at the carcass.
Around this time, I bumped into Lloyd. I really can’t believe the distance he walks down in this same spot, in fact, he goes so far as to cross the ice to the island almost every day. He asked, in his jovial way, ‘Why he hadn’t seen me lately?’ And I told him that apart from one day during the deep freeze I came down to make my typical observations. He walked with me as far as the beaver dam. Together, we looked at the reflections on the smooth pond ice. He told me a story of skating ponds in his childhood….such magic! Walking, I told him about the incident with the deer. We parted ways. As he left, he said, “I hope you spot your eagles”.
The remainder of the walk was very peaceful. I thought that I might discover more deer, given that the stressed white tail flew out from this side of the river, but no sightings. Several beautifully large and articulating Ravens flew amongst the bare branches. All was magical. Then, as if from nowhere, the young Eagle appeared. I haven’t captured any really clear photographs, but I would guess that it was either one of the one year olds from last summer’s nest, or a two year old. Its colouring is getting to be mottled. One thing for certain, it wasn’t the Huntress, one that I expected to see. A Raven flew in and gave this youngster some company for a short while. Dad was no where to be seen.
This day was a beautiful day. Again, it reinforced the fact that life is filled to the brim with both beauty and brutality. We have no choice but to take it all and in whatever ways it makes its way to us. We can control the ways that we respond, but apart from that, we should always keep a Plan B in our back pockets.
Here at home, safe and warm, a friend from the river, fired off a message to me. I was eating from a hot bowl of stew at the time. The message was about a deer that was wounded and down, just beneath 130th Ave. She met Lloyd while out on her hike (love my network of river friends) and thought that this deer was possibly the character from my narrative. I will never know. Initially, I thought, by description, the deer was above the bank, but as the information became more clear, I learned that this deer is wounded and is out on the ice tonight. It would be an impossible thing for anyone to assist it tonight, impossible to keep it from its suffering. While this is upsetting to me and to my friends, we have sometimes no choice but to accept what we can’t control. I’m hoping that the coyotes/eagles are able to make good use of its sacrifice.
This, it turns out, was quite a day. Blessings to those of you who have sent wishes today. Blessings on my father.
Nothing like clicking the camera and having this message come up. I suppose, in some ways, a person should walk through life without space on their memory card, in order to be fully present. So, I walked the rest of the crispy morning, without snapping and clicking and containing the magic of the landscape. Instead, I considered the beauty of the Pileated Woodpecker and the bright flash of red through the hoarfrost to be a gift to me. The morning was heavenly, on my side of the river.
I saw our adult Bald Eagle pretty quickly and snapped some shots as the fog off the river was quickly making its way toward me. The sound of geese and ducks rose up out of the icy Bow River. All else was silent. These are the photos that I grabbed before my lens withdrew into my camera and my camera shut down.
The White Breasted Nuthatch was the best that I could get yesterday, when I left Max at home and did my walk by myself.
Weather and nature contribute to struggles…constantly, I’m reminded that life contains brutality as well as beauty.
Always trying for a good shot of a White Breasted Nuthatch, but never quite getting it.
In all of that blue, above, one can see a Juvenile flying over. It’s wonderful that recently another birder-friend, Julie has sighted one of the Juveniles close, on our side of the river. At least one of them has thrived thus far, through the wintry weather.
As I poured over my archives last evening, On December 15, 2018 I observed an adult Bald Eagle on the nest. At the end of my walk this morning, I noticed that an adult had landed on the nest and was doing some shifting of the snow on its surface. So many beautiful miracles at this nest the past six years! It’s all so intuitive and spectacular to watch unfold. Already, I’ve been given a promise of spring.
Today’s Facebook ‘wall’ is plastered with various news blips on the topic of the cuts happening here in Alberta. I’ve made those posts. But, rather than deleting them, I’m going to take a moment to consider what this day has actually been and been about. Only moments ago, I brushed my teeth. I stepped out onto the back deck and looked up at the moon. I am taking pause and thinking about my day…my actual day…not about that veneer, that public explosion that happens for us if we dig too deep into the chaos that is today in the news.
My morning began like this.
I sat down, with coffee, and pin pointed the Barrow in Furness address where Mary Eleanor Haddow, my great grandmother, was born in the early 1800s. I then scrolled Instagram, up on the red couch, while stroking Max’s head redundantly for almost a half hour. I dreamed about making one more trip to England so that I might visit such places and walk Blackfriar’s road and travel, again, to France to stand at my Great Grandfather’s resting place in Etaples and maybe even get myself to Ortona, Italy.
I went to my computer station, in order to print out this map and while cropping it, my sister and I exchanged a few messages with one another. She sent me a photograph of her and her three pup companions and I sent her a photograph of me and Max. I love yous were shared.
I decided that Max’s injury had been quiet enough for a few days that I would take him to the river. The air was so mild and the light, so beautiful. We took our time; it was more a stroll than a walk, but it was so incredible.I really felt huge gratitude as the day opened up to me.
I dropped Max back to the car and then went for a last look to see if I could sight any of the coyotes. I spotted several deer across the river, but no coyotes. And then, the magic of friendship was enjoyed, as I saw Jeff making his observations along the pathway. As is pretty usual, we ended up talking about cameras and such. Today I learned about the Polaroid Cube and the Zoom Audio Recorder.
Lunch consisted of a lovely little Greek Salad at home.
After doing just a few things around the house and checking in on all things political (lol), I made a quick stop at the Dollarama Store to pick up some small canvas boards. I felt a need to paint some poppies with my grandson before Remembrance Day. There was a bit of a wait for him to wake up from his nap, so over two cups of hot tea, I had a nice visit with Linda and Erin.
I decided to stop at the river, again, on my way home, just to see if I could make any eagle sightings. At the edge of the Bow, everything was wildly alive, although the colour was muted which contributed to the magic of everything. A loud cacophony of sound filled the air as hundreds of Canada Geese found their way to the river. I was overcome. And there, in the midst of the geese, one eagle flew assertively in and out of their crowds. It was amazing. I managed to capture a brief moment. But, let’s face it, no images were going to be focused because the light just wasn’t there. I didn’t know what to do with my feelings about the scope and beauty in that moment, so as has become habit, I snapped photographs.
I spotted brilliant white southeast on the river, and so, took a quick peek through my camera’s viewfinder to identify the white birds and happily discovered the presence of Swans or Snow Geese, interspersed with the Canada Geese. A quick and fuzzy snap and I was off and rushing to the location where I enjoyed watching them making their disappearance around the point and onto the river. Darkness was settling over everything, apart from soft pink directly west. I headed back.
As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw Doug and Shirley Anne’s car, stopped, opened my window and together, we marveled at the wonder we had just seen. The three of us felt very blessed and it was just so nice to know that I had shared the magic with friends.
Upon my return home, my son and I headed out to the Saigon Royal Restaurant for a steaming pot of Jasmine Tea and a big bowl of Pho. I started watching for a text message from my Dad who, I knew, was on the road from Ottawa to Belleville, earlier in the day. He promised he would text, but I convinced myself that he would struggle with that as per usual and that he is well and safe and enjoying the traditions of the Mistletoe Market this weekend.
At home, Max and I walked the neighbourhood circle and then James and I watched some cop shows on his big screen.
Just a short while ago, I stepped out on the deck and snapped a few photographs of the moon. While I didn’t capture them, there were three soft rings of colour surrounding her tonight. Those colours and the lovely still air remind me of the beauty that is ours. I am grateful. And one never knows what a single day might bring.
I am a single woman, in the last decades of my life, and sometimes I lay my head down on my pillow at the end of a busy day and wonder about being solitary in the world. My life plays through my mind like a thin thread of film, projected on the dark wall across from me. I am both in awe and fearful. My life, alone, is a peaceful one. Perhaps this is what was always meant to be. But that acceptance and peace does not necessarily keep me from looking at the connection that others have in their partnered lives.
Autumn often causes this rerun, the movie of over sixty autumns that I can remember. In every other autumn I would not have written the previous paragraph down, especially not in this format, perhaps in a private journal. But, now, how does it really matter?
I remember a moment in a single engine Cessna, somewhere over Wisconsin. We were flying north into Duluth when we got into difficulty and with time, our cloud ceiling was at 200 and then 100 and our pilot was requesting permission to land on a highway, the only visual reference we had. Knowing that there were towers in the area and knowing that our pilot only had visual rating was frightening. I clung to my then-partner’s hands, both of them. Averting the first option, the wings bowed deeply sideways into the white cloud as we banked to go south and out of the fog/cloud. When we came around, the tree tops were an arm’s length from the plane’s belly. I remember them as though it was yesterday. They were conifers. I kept saying, “The trees. The trees.” Not yelling and not particularly panicked. This was a nightmare. I had time to think, “I wonder how Mom and Dad will find me.” I let go of my partner’s hand. Instinctively I knew, ‘in the end I face this all alone.’
And I do.
Winter is coming. A family of bald eagles has taught me much these past months but for several weeks, the juveniles have been distant, sent out of this territory to hunt, fish and find their own way. The female came to some demise and is now gone. The male has sheltered and fed the young. A new sub adult has made herself known and has done multiple demonstrations for the juveniles. She is a beautiful strong huntress. The male has been close to her, but it seems that they are always in some wild discussion, resistant and yet set on a path. Who knows what spring will bring. It was only in the first snowfall that the youngsters returned to their nesting territory, bleating to the cold wind, about their fears and their challenges. It was the day before yesterday’s snow that both the male and female arrived and consoled me with their familiar roosts in their favourite tree branches. These beautiful raptors act as a unit, but live deeply their singular lives…it is what they must do to survive and for the species to survive.
These photographs were taken over these few weeks of Autumn..in no particular order. They capture the prayers and the beauty and the journey of a single woman in a very beautiful world.
Autumn means chasing this guy around, trying to grab a focused photograph. Some people play football. This is my sport. I could spend hours listening for him and then high-tailing it to his next location. He plays catch-me-if-you-can and I can be heard in the woods, laughing out loud. If anyone else was around they would wonder. First, readers, take note of the Belted Kingfisher’s interesting sound.
Twice in the past two days, the Kingfisher has taken a place of importance, the high Y branch of the Bald Eagle family’s favourite tree. First time, both Juveniles went at him. I think that perhaps the Kingfisher was consuming a meal and the young eagles get pretty scrappy with the food of other river hunters. Next time, the Sub Adult flew in, I suppose just to claim her dominance.
My visuals are all very unfocused, but I’m logging these here as a part of my birder journals. This morning, in the fog, I also watched an Osprey dive, almost vertically, off of a tree and pounce upon a young Cormorant as he fished. Life on the river is a bit of a dog-eat-dog world. When I returned home, I saw that I got an unfocused capture of the Osprey leaving the tree.
The two juvenile Bald Eagles swooped into the scene, evicting the Kingfisher from prime territory.
He arrived at my side of the river, for only moments and I snapped this photograph, directly into the light.
Another visit to the river, and again, he chose prime branches. Are you kidding?
In she swooped…and look, where the little guy ended up!
This morning, in the fog.
Life carries on, in all forms, at the river, but very different from only weeks ago. The Downy and Hairy Woodpeckers are in greater numbers, as are the White Breasted Nuthatches. The Northern Flickers swoosh down and up onto the Elms. This afternoon, the subdued landscape was broken by a huge frenzy of vocalizations of coyotes on the island and the howls were returned in unison by the coyotes on this side of the river. It was absolutely magical!
Osprey taking a dive, not for a fish, but for the Cormorant catching the fish! (Horrible photo alert!)
Juvenile Cormorant. Doug Newman pointed out one time that some Cormorant species have bright blue eyes in this stage. This is the best that I’ve been able to capture that.
And, what exactly is this? Has this wee babe been abandoned by Mom? What is it?
The elegance of the young American Robins, at this time, fills my heart, whenever I see them.
This past week might have been impacted by bad-weather days, but nature continues to amaze me, regardless.
The female Mallard keeps her kids in line.
I will continue to attempt a good capture of the Belted Kingfisher during the coming week.
Early mornings on the river now reveal just how circular my own journey is and how natural death is to life. All life blooms, but also fades. In youth, I ran toward the next Christmas and to the next Halloween and to the next grade and the next teacher and to a boyfriend and to a husband. Never would I suffer divorce. Never, in my imagination, would my mother die. My brother would not die. My life long friends would remain at my side always. The abundance of living well, seemed endless.
In reality, the magic that perches at the edge of the river demonstrates again and again that life transforms. I look down at my own hands at this keyboard this morning and see this transformation in my self. I have no choice but to accept it, while at the same time, I have the opportunity to create magic in others and to watch life unfold in my children and in my grandson. I also have the choice to embrace the beauty of another fading summer.
My circular walks at the river have healed me throughout this lush green often-wet summer. I have watched closely as the adult Bald Eagles tended two eggs at their nest, saw them through the biting cold of spring when at last those eggs hatched and almost two months later two beautiful fledglings found their place in a brutal world.
Having watched this mating pair over several seasons, it was sad to watch the disappearance of Mrs., a week after the second youngster fledged. She was such an inspiring raptor and was vigilant with the two young eagles, demonstrating fiercely, the skills that were intuitive and essential for their start in life. She may have been evicted or killed and within days, a sub adult began to dominate the territory, eventually captivating Mr. who diligently fed and raised up his two progeny.
These days those same juveniles soar high above me, carving huge circles into a deep blue sky, utterly celebrating what it means to be Bald Eagles. I sometimes find myself weeping at the enormous beauty of this passage of time as manifested in one little family at the river.
I no longer hear the sounds of the Red-Winged Blackbirds. Theirs is the first song of spring. And now, they are gone. Where only a month ago the Yellow Warblers’ very particular song filled the woods, there is only the occasional flash of bright yellow in the low brush. Mating and fledging behind them now, where do they disappear? The sounds of geese returns after a month of silence. The adult Mallards begin to separate from the juveniles now, after so many weeks of being alert and startling so easily. The American Pelicans no longer rest in great numbers in the quiet eddies of the Bow. The changes happen in subtle ways. One beauty is replaced by another.
Now, the Cedar Waxwing juveniles are practicing flight in great numbers and every evening they are making loops out over the water and back, out and back, lighting in bare branches. Adults remain vigilant. Yellow Rumped Warblers have increased in numbers, likely just passing through, and Downy Woodpeckers, Nuthatches and Northern Flickers take up residence. Many of them will winter here.
Wild Asters are in bloom for a second time and the Thistles are in seed. Small water bugs fly thick and hover above the racing water. The fish jump. Conversations with the fishermen include stories of Brown Trout, Rainbow Trout and Pike. They pull out their phones and scroll through their photographs, proudly telling me their fishing narratives. They humour me with observations of the eagles.
The native grasses are now beyond my shoulders and the closeness creates that feeling of being watched, a mystical feeling of not being alone. Sometimes, I look to the left and deer are perfectly still and their eyes meet mine. Their eyes are pools of dark liquid, staring. They do not move. We are captivated by one another. If I move at all they flinch or huff and spook into the trees. The coyotes sulk into the tall growth and disappear. It is in this stillness where I discover life, abundantly. I look up and a juvenile eagle is peering at me. The Grey Catbirds, now gone, would remain absolutely still as I slipped by. The Eastern Kingbirds, showmen as they are, perform their antics with seemingly no fear. Their numbers are also dwindling at the river’s edge.
Once, the stillness was broken by the loud slap of a beaver in the quiet eddy to the south. Another time, with my back to the water, I heard a powerful bang and quickly pivoted around to see an Osprey lift up and out of the water, huge fish clutched in its talons. The sounds at the river are mesmerizing…and now, with the tall grasses turning gold, those sounds can be very soft and comforting.
Tansy is changing from brilliant yellow to brown. Leaves drift silently to the ground from the highest canopy. I am in awe that summer is at an end.
Over the coming weeks, the Bald Eagles will eek out their place on the river. Mr. will no longer provide the two youngsters with food. He will evict them and they will begin their struggle to survive through another bitterly cold winter. I don’t have any idea how to end this post because life at the river has no real end. It is a place of beginnings.
I know this. I know that we must challenge everything in the world that does not steward the land and the earth and the air. Life is a brutal thing. Death is brutal. We must protect the little ones. We must leave my grandson this beauty…I can not imagine him not knowing what a world of abundance we were given.
The morning I took my tent over to set up in my grandson’s back yard was the last day I saw Mrs. alive at the river. I didn’t know it then, but the female Bald Eagle’s beautiful and peaceful time with me at the Bow River’s edge would be her last and so I will always treasure the archive of photographs my readers might enjoy, here.
I kind of chuckle about that sentence as I leave it behind in my first paragraph, imagining that anyone at all might read the thoughts or passage of time shared by a 64 year old woman. I feel some days as though I am still a young girl who marvels at the beauty and rich loam of the mysterious gully across from my home on Market Street. I don’t feel different and yet so many years and so many places have gone by!
When in doubt about how a camping trip might be arranged between a Gramma and her Grandson, it is best not to let the logistics interfere with the experience, and so, sometimes you just have to go ahead and make things happen.
Little did I know that a tent would simply provide yet another way for trucks and diggers to be celebrated. In the tent we went with the big yellow trucks…and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
Thank you, Linda, for our tea and snacks. Steven and I headed out to a very busy construction site. Once returned, Gramma rolled up her sleeping bags and packed up her tent and was on her way. A call for severe thunderstorms that afternoon, made this call, the safe call.
The river is no longer silty and the clarity of the water in the morning, allowed beautiful hues of turquoise and green to shine through. Max is always my trusted companion on these early morning walks.
First things first…the fly sheet goes down. ‘Say fly sheet, Steven.’
There was an orangy-yellow glow to everything that evening at the river. I watched two beaver for almost a half hour before walking north west and finding Mrs. quietly observing her world from above. That night I confirmed that her talons on the left had damage.
Hours spent by the river are the best hours. I hope and pray that my grandson will love and respect nature as much as I do. I will do my very best to instill that in him by sharing my joy and delight in the textures, colours, sights, smells and sounds of natural environments.
Snake! Gramma touch.
What a pleasure to make observations of the juveniles. Dad is watching closely.