The fog down here crawls haphazardly in from Great Cove behind me. When it reaches the fire pond, it rises to full height and strides confidently straight up the north field. The snow around the pond and the ice within it are as soft as vanilla sherbet and soon will be gone. But now they provide a pleasing contrast to the blurry, winter-browned landscape. The silence is penetrating. I feel like I’m inside an immense bell jar.
Once again there is the consternation of feeling I’m alone when I know I’m never alone here. My senses are just too dull for me to perceive my surroundings adequately. I search the woods’ edge with a long lens; sweep too quickly over a color change that triggers an instinct; move the lens back slowly, refocus. There!
The resting doe stares at me with what appears to be quiet disdain. She seems to know that my awareness skills are not as good as hers, here in her world. She also apparently has learned that I’m a member of an invasive predator species. She looks calm, but her ears and steady gaze tell me that she’s alerted and, if need be, she could spring up and be gone in a second.
She apparently has come to terms with predators. She was born with evolved instincts and has been taught by elders how best to deal with predatory behavior. Lately, I’ve come to realize that human education is lacking in that regard. (Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on March 16, 2025.) See also the image in the first Comment space.