Summer has officially arrived, and baby animals are making their way in the world. Sue reports the groundhog that terraformed the compost pile at her house has now populated it with babies. Said babies are called pups, kits, or—the best one—chucklings. They’re old enough now to come out to play, explore, and climb all over mama.
My approach alarmed a baby rabbit and, in a separate incident, a baby squirrel this week. Both babies decided to flee. Diagonally across the sidewalk in front of me. Right in front of me. The squirrel nearly ran over my foot.
A juvenile turkey stood alone at the edge of a cornfield on Joy Road, Wednesday, seemingly at a loss as to how to proceed. There it was in the wide world, on its own, wondering what to do next. This was apparently going to be a long ponder, as the bird remained unmoving as long as we could see it. An hour- and-a-half later, it had decided and gone off somewhere to whatever the next order of business turned out to be.
Also, in a yard along Joy Road, we glimpsed a mother-daughter interaction of the human persuasion. They were both seated cross-legged in the middle of a round blue trampoline, the young girl in front of the mom. The child had long hair, parts of which were piled on top of her head and held with clips, as the mom worked with the rest. Mom was giving Daughter a haircut, and Daughter was smiling broadly. The scene was intimate and tender. Parent and child were making memories.
Raspberries are starting to ripen in the woods by Thurston Pond. I startled a doe in those woods this morning, and wondered if she’d been checking the berries. She may just have come for a drink, though, as she was on the pond side of the woods, and the raspberry canes showed no sign of deer browsing. Only a few berries are ripe so far, one here, one there, flavorful and delightfully crunchy with seeds.
Trimming bushes in the front garden yesterday, I heard a robin fretting in the dogwood near me. A mama bird wanted to sit on her nest. She wanted to so much that eventually she just did. She hunkered down in the nest and stayed there bravely the whole time I was working, scarcely more than an arm’s length away.
A Cooper’s hawk was intent on matters of its own in our back yard this morning. At first, I thought it was tearing up a kill, out behind the hostas. Nope. It was trying on sticks for size. Our yard has an abundant supply of sticks, and the hawk tried a number of them, picking them up and discarding them, or trying to pick them up and not getting a good grip. Judging by the one it flew off with, the bird wanted the biggest stick it could carry and still fly.
Once it chose the stick, which was about two feet long, the next challenge presented itself: negotiating the stick through the opening in the trees, which looked to be scant inches wider than the stick. The hawk made it through on the second approach, and was last seen bearing that most excellent stick off to add to its nest, wherever that might be.
Sue is part of a group of Ann Arborites who sponsor a truckload of peaches to be picked up each year in Georgia and delivered carefully to them here in town. These are Very Good Peaches, and she shared some with us this week. They’re like the peaches of yore, sweet and firm and juicy.
They’re like the peaches I bought a peck of when pregnant with Daughter Number Four. My sense of smell was on overdrive, most foodstuffs smelled disgusting, and I was hungry. I went to farmers market, hoping to find something that still smelled good, and there they were, peaches.
I bought a peck and set the basket down next to the kitchen sink at home, so I could wash one immediately and lean over the sink if it was juicy. It was. It was peach perfection. I washed another one and ate it, too. I was on my third or fourth peach when Daughter Number Three came by and asked what I was doing.
“Eating peaches,” I told her. “They are so good.” I washed one and handed it to her, and she joined me there at the sink, scarfing down peaches. She probably stopped at one. I didn’t stop till I was full. I ate seven of those perfect peaches. Ah, summer.
26 June 2026