The wind has been stirring. The forest creaks. The leaves rustle. Things bump out there among the trunks. I hear other things. A faint meow. I call. It is so distant it could be a sad memory or my wishful imagination. Crawford. Collar. Now where did she get to?
The wind is too loud moving through the forest. Fall brings a whole new array of sound as leaves scatter around. Fruits and nuts drop. The constant rain of branches plummeting to the earth increases in a stiff wind. I can't hear what I imagine I am hearing. A meow must be separated from the rubbing violin of trunks and branches. I wait for a still moment. Collar. Collar. Now where did she get to?
After a couple of hours she finally appears. A roll call training session has begun with an evening feed of canned food.
The thinning forest is about to reveal a summer's work to passersby. It may reveal other things I dread.
From the cabin looking out towards the scenic byway, the trees of the septic drain field garden to be are in their prime. The always half dead Black Locust are on my hit list. Some judicious thinning could allow the addition of some Silver Bell or Sourwood trees. I like my summer privacy screen.
It has been a long time since I have seen the entire floor inside the cozy cabin. The remaining batts of insulation were tossed up in the main loft to make way for the drywall to be delivered.
The floor insulation sandwich is moving along smoothly. A truly insulated house will soon be a reality.
While a cabin grows, a sweep of forest dies. Behind the cabin on the right is a former grove of the mighty Hemlock. Eighty foot tall carcasses are all that remain. When will they fall? It is a sound I am sure to hear. Loud crashes and groaning trees leaning quickly to the ground are a rather common voice in the wild forest. Wind is not always needed.
There is a nice view into the forest canopy from the window in the loft. There could be a whole new array of sound from up here. Funny how the eye does not see screen and the camera hones in on it.
The forest talks and I listen. I need to know who is out there. First I must become fluent in the seasonal language. Rain drops hours after the skies have dried. Ice whispers as it warms and falls. Branches clatter when bare, in leaf it is a stadium roar.
I think I hear a faint meow far off in the distance. It could be carried in on the wind. I position myself, ear cocked in multiple locations. I wait for a still moment. Surely this is imagined, the echos of brain cells deep in the recesses of my psyche. Crawford ... sigh.
Then a small black and white figure comes running down the driveway at dusk with a hoarse meow. Collar what are you so exited about? Meow, mow. The meow is not right. Could it be?
Good Lord have mercy it is. It's Crawford!
He is skinny, hungry, skittish and hyper, but Crawford is back home. There are no dings or dents, no tears, wounds or bald spots. He looks just fine. Crawford is back after five days of an unexplained disappearance.
I think someone is baiting a live trap around here. The question is why can't I hear the kitties cry?