Our Thicket

We moved last month. Our new home is a comfortable one-bedroom, one-bath apartment. Some folks would consider such an arrangement confining. Not us. Barb and I are well into our 56th year. She embroiders, I write. We bonded long ago.
Our living room faces north and looks into a dense pine forest and thicket, a haven for birds of many varieties. It is our Waldon Pond. In addition, there are discrete creatures we seldom see, but who leave who often leave their mark. Why do we suspect racoons? Because they often pry off the trash can lids and dumpster dive. And they don’t tidy up when they are finished.

Last week we brought home deep-fried chicken from the supermarket. Naturally, the bones went into trash. The next morning several bones lay on the trash can lids, cracked open, the morrow recycled, going to a high cause than the land fill.
While putting things back in order and elderly lady arrived with her trash.
“Racoons do well in the thicket. A few years back someone decided to trap them. They caught 23 before abandoning their mission,” she informed me.
We are pleased the powers that be lost interest in trapping because we enjoy the thicket and the activity it supports.

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