Thursday Seeds: Animals that don’t talk
Should I be nervous? There is no time. There are no words, this female deer is headed toward me up the hill and onto the plateau that is my neighbor’s backyard at dusk. My cat, the only one at the time, was surprised too. I can tell by her stance as the deer walked right past her and toward me.
It’s only afterward that there is a pause and the twitch of noses in greeting of one another, this dear deer and Tuna, my best friend and travel companion. No words.
Her name is Agnes but only because someone else said so. She never announced a name with her presence. She turned again to me, satisfied that Tuna is not a threat and that Tuna realizes she isn’t either. It is me that she wants to talk to. And she says with no words, a loud thank you for the scraps of celery leftover from the juicing frenzy of the past couple of days.
Within, there is also the small question of: “Is there more?”
And with a short shake of my head, she gives me the dear “deer in headlights” look about how she has a family to feed and she is in need. After shots were taken, she is back down the hill and out of view.
The next day, there are scraps left for her.
Yesterday was Richard Burns’ Birthday and I stumbled across this poem that seemed fitting for today’s post.
To a Mouse by Richard Burns
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breast!
Thou need na start away see hasty,
Wi’bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, they poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? Poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
’S a sma’ request;
I’ll get a blessing wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly ways the win’s are strewin!
An’naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’foggage green!
An’bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash!The cruel couture past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee bit heap o’leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or half,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
An’cranreuch cauld!
But, mouse, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’mice an ‘men
Gang aft agley,
An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promise joy!
Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast me e’e
On prospect drear!
An’forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
The full title of this poem, I learned later.
To a mouse, On turning Her up in her Nest with the Plough, November 1785.
