As the summer fires raged in the western US in 2020, the year of the pandemic, one day in late September the smoke traveled east and filtered our cloudless skies. An eerie pall cast an unfamiliar suspension of light over our western field as the sun made its descent behind the trees. 

 

This field lies behind our house, in the middle of the Pemaquid peninsula and sits on the clay deposits from ancient glacial events. Mixed forests on three sides dominate but share small boggy lowlands with alders and winter berries. A vernal Pond defines its northern perimeter. Once an overcrowded thicket of conifers,  eventual die-off by acid rain of mature white spruce cleared the way for the small field, where we fostered the natural growth of goldenrods and asters. Wild turkeys have given birth to their broods nearby, and the summer growth provide protection to their chicks and to newly born fawns as they grow. As summer progresses, a mown path allows up-close observation of vibrant insect life, pollinating before the blooms are spent. In the foreground of our field stand a few young balsam firs, fated to be Christmas trees. 

 

In a year like no other, a day hasn’t passed without gratitude for where I live and with whom I share my life.  This is my sanctuary, the field, our forest, our home in Bristol.