Last night I managed to read half of Rita Mae Brown's charming (but not engrossing)The Tell-Tale Horse before falling asleep. In this book, set in Virginia hunt country, the horses, hounds, and foxes have conversations, too. One peculiar conversation among two female foxes (vixens) still hovered in my memory this morning:
"You know, Georgia, I often wonder if [people] used to know things as we know them and somehow, way back when they started living in cities, they began to lose the ability. Now it's gone. I mean, they can hardly tell what the weather will be from one day to the next. On their own, I mean. It's sad and dangerous."
"Why is it dangerous?" Georgia [a young grey fox] asked.
"An animal that violates or forgets its own nature eventually dies, I think. Trouble is, they'll take a lot of us down with them . . ." said Inky [a jet-black fox].
As a gardener and amateur philosopher (who isn't?!), I'm a serious believer in the importance of the earth's natural rhythms. And, here in the heavily populated DC/NOVA suburbs, I do find it difficult to hear them through all the macadam and concrete and steel and fumes. So this morning I was out early looking for signs of spring in my suburban yard, turning my face to the blue sky in anticipation just like the flower buds.
Early daffodils along the forest edge, a little sleepy-headed just like me.
Forsythia bushes tripping over themselves, some already blooming indoors in the tall forcing vases.
Climbing roses daring to show their tender colors among the thorns.