I'm up and out early, stepping cautiously past the lavender at the corner of our house in case I startle something in the backyard that I'd rather not run into. Recently, a fisher cat or raccoon pulled the nest, its hatchlings, and the mother out of their bird box and left only feathers. The father chirped incessantly for four days, and I grieved with him until he wooed another mate. His second brood survived, as luck would have it, but I still feel sad when I think about his first family. I counted four sweet little chirping heads the day before the tragic event.

Behind me is the hose that I'm dragging across the lawn to water the potatoes, which are now knee-high and still growing. The deer have been nibbling off the tops. That's okay, it won't hurt the potatoes lying deep in the loamy soil. We have more deer in our tiny backyard than I ever saw out my back door in Idaho. I often marvel at the amount of wildlife that inhabits the thin corridor between the houses in our dense neighborhood and the river. Despite all the years I lived in Idaho and Utah with my two cats, it was here in Rhode Island that a coyote took my half-Siamese, half-Maine Coon, Grub. I don't begrudge it its empty belly when in mid-March there were pups to feed. The year before, Grub had fought off two coyotes and survived with only long scratches down his back and claws worn down to nubs. He fought hard, being nineteen pounds of solid muscle and attitude. After that, we kept him inside well past dawn and brought him in well before dusk. But the coyotes were patient; they adjusted and waited.

This year has been a baby boom for wildlife: four playful chipmunks, who love to chase each other and have made extra plunge holes in our yard, as if they each need one of their own; a downy woodpecker, fed by a doting parent, clinging side by side at the thistle/sunflower chip feeder; a cardinal who appears to be fending for herself now; a pair of red-winged blackbirds, fed by their father with his flashy red epaulets; fledglings of sparrows with stubby tails, trying out their wings; and all sorts of bunnies, the smallest of whom is oblivious to us and naive in the ways of the world. I worry about them. The coyotes are ever present, as are the cats, so the abundance of babies seems unusual for July. 

Above me and out of the corner of my eye, a shadow swoops from the sky, snatching a bird before I even see the Cooper's hawk carry it away. It's upsetting, but I shake off the loss, figuring everyone has to eat, right? Later, I try to identify the prey by examining the clumps of downy feathers scattered in a circle on the neighbor's lawn. The answer, however, remains up in the air.

On my way back to clean and refill the birdbath, I douse the lavender with the hose and am quickly intoxicated by its scent, breathing deeply as I step back around the corner of the house. I wish I could linger here, but there are prints to make, a pile of sewing to stitch, orders to fill, and work to be done.

Lavender sachets, hand-printed on natural linen, 5" square.