Threes

Not always, of course, but it happens often enough to give rise to the superstition that death comes in threes.  The night before, I'd found Musashi, the gorgeous white Silky rooster with turquoise earlobes, lying still in the Taj.  A gift from Deb and Craig and full grown, I don't know how old he was when he came here.  The two younger roosters had taken to beating up on him.  Why is it that creatures pick on the weak or elderly?  In the morning, a very young mouse hadn't been able to climb out of the goats' feed bucket and probably died of panic.  The crows set up such a racket nearby in the afternoon that I went to the front door to see what that was all about.  They were repeatedly dive-bombing a large hawk (I'm assuming it was a red-tail) who was holding his ground and standing in the driveway.  As I watched, the hawk took flight with one of the numerous baby squirrels that have been playing in the front yard in his or her talons.  I wasn't as surprised to see a bird of prey, although seldom so close, as the fact that the crows were so defensive.  That makes three, and that's enough.  It's a hard world for little creatures.

The air above the goat pen has been filled with the annual influx of dragonflies hovering on gossamer wings.  Do they migrate?  There won't be any, and then one day they are everywhere.  They'll be here for awhile, and then there will be none again.

After the drama of the day, it was a fitting close to walk out and see this beautiful sunset like a benediction.