The day dawns clear and peaceful. Mourning doves call; I hear a Barred Owl's Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?; a dog barks frantically Danger! Danger! I catch sight of an adult bear (an exciting first!) in front of the old cabin but by the time I've grabbed my camera, he's disappeared into the woods.
The earth grinds on and the sun appears, flooding the slopes with light. The dogs return from sniffing every inch of the ground where the bear had been. The aroma of coffee fills the house. The owl calls again and is answered.
So complete is the peace here in this place. Elsewhere, the streets are angry and our president* is doing all he can to whip up emotions, warning of vicious dogs and extreme weaponry protecting him while encouraging governors to get tough. Pictures of white men breaking windows, reporters being attacked, wounds from rubber bullets fill my internet. Peaceful demonstrators are tear gassed so the president* can use a historic church and the bible as props in a photo op. Protests, peaceful and otherwise, are everywhere. I am taken back to when I was a very young child, playing in my grandparents' big back yard that was bordered by an empty golf course. I knew that my father was away fighting in The War where there were bombs and guns and explosions, and as I played in the stillness of that long ago day, I remember listening very hard to try to hear the guns. But there were only mourning doves.
