But to the southwest, with the wind, I can hear the rumble from Interstate I-89. The Mink Hills, where I live on Newmarket Road, once hard scrabble north slope farm, have turned back to forest. The hills are rough and folded over one another with shielded hemlock glades and many rocky glens, perfect shelter for animals. The swampy brook - red hollows have marsh marigolds and moose. Porcupines, wild turkeys, woodcock seem to be everywhere.
Hawks keep watch for the mice and voles from the trees.
Snakes have taken up residence beneath the mulch hay in the garden, around whose borders for two springs a baby deer has been born and lived its quiet and early weeks. Owls call mournfully and fiercely in the night. Downy and pileated woodpeckers hammer on trees. I sit writing amidst a blaze of fall color, crimson crescendos and orange dapplings. This is not wilderness, but it is alive, is country, is filled with creatures living life in rough balance.