I hear the gravel crunching under the weight of an approaching car. Is it a friend coming to visit or someone lost on this dead end road? Will they stop to visit or turn around and drive back the way they came, shaking their heads, wondering who would live at the end of a road called Wild Hare?
I do. I live here with the wood thrush singing to me each morning and evening after dinner. I do. I live here with the gray tree frogs visiting my porch to have their own dinner among the moths, in the light at my door. I do. I live here where the speckled fawn hides at the edge of the woods. This is my home. The next time I hear the gravel talk, maybe it will be a friend coming to share my wild end of the road. I’m listening.