West County - Constance Miles

[Larry Robinson]

 West County 

To escape the heat, I don’t emerge until dusk,
like a hummingbird moth, flitting from flower
to flower. I deadhead roses, dahlias, snapdragons,
gather tomatillos for salsa, Sun Golds and grapes
for drying, pink pearls for crisps. The black-
berries still offer themselves and will become
jam to last the year. It’s harvest and we’re
awash in the abundance of this land.

A mountain lion leaps across the road in
front of our car and we are breathless, smitten
with it’s magnificence, sleek and swift, a vision
that will be with us for days. I have lived here
for forty years and never encountered one
before. My body tingles with knowing he
is nearby.

A family of deer enter the driveway, a buck,
a doe and two tiny spotted fawns.
Stilled, we glance at one another, a 
timeless moment. Then they are off.
For now they have spared the rhubarb
and geraniums. Some of the Peruvian
lilies, growing behind a large aloe,
are too high for their reach and
the spice bush, propagated from the
one across the road, has survived this
 year as well.

The foxes stake claim to the
dance floor, garden paths, picnic tables. 
We hear them from our outdoor bed, see
them by day, by dusk. The possums, raccoons
and wood rats churn the compost pile. The 
skunks forage on fallen millet and seeds 
beneath the bird feeders. Their fluffy
black and white bodies, lithe and fairy like, 
surprise us at night, as we exit the back door.

We feel blessed to be community with the 
wild ones, savoring our awareness of one
another. If they were gone, there would be
a kind of loneliness, perhaps even a longing.
If we were gone, I imagine, the land would
still be theirs, as it was before we came.

	- Constance Miles