The wild is pressed upon us. In the morning we hear a hundred birds, at night the chorus of a thousand frogs. Chipmunks scatter across the roof, vines curl against the windows. And always, there are the bugs.
Spiders fling their webs across the doorway, set up shop in most every corner. Their shops run a profit: our screens are shot through with holes, one wall soft with rain, and creepy-crawlies creep and crawl all through our little house. The spiderwebs are mostly full. At night, moths and mosquitoes buzz around the lights, and in the morning I wake with new bites itching. A family of ants live in the walls somewhere and march their solemn lines across most every surface. Every so often a group of them go winged and flutter madly against the windows with the ladybugs, gnats, horseflies, and swallowtails.
The lines between civilization and - what else is there? the rest of the world? - are blurred. I bring piles of dirt and straw in with me. I jump in the pond more often than the shower. I have a mammal's body and an animal's dreams, full of sweat and blood. It is a good life.