Spent the day at the property. Mowed the meadow and carved meandering pathways through the trees. The grass grows fast. Nearly knee-high in some places after a week, lush and green.
In the distance, a baying donkey. Birds in the trees singing their songs. Gunshots in the country are of little concern — neighbors taking target practice. It is mostly quiet, bird-song for company. I like that there are trees everywhere, allowing for privacy and shade. I’m told these pines grow quickly, however, and can soon overtake a property.
Cleaned up the trash pile where the collapsed cabin sits in shambles. Slowly but surely. Filled one garbage can with plastic and glass bottles. Filled another with shotgun shells and random detritus — rope, broken pottery, pieces of wood (from the cabin, I assume).
Worked up a good sweat pushing that lawnmower around and cleaning up trash.
While I worked, various neighbor dogs came to see what I was up to. Curious at first, each kept their distance until I called to them. Then they approached tail wagging, head lowered in a submissive gesture and allowed me to pet them. I shared my sausage and cheese with the chocolate lab mix who lives across the street. He knows me from before. Country dogs are so much more trusting and friendlier than their suburban counterparts. Free-roaming, they go where they please and were probably just wondering what I was doing in their part of the woods.