Painted turtles basking in the sun across the swamp on a mat of downed reeds. Their black backs shine. One of these days they’ll come wandering over our driveway to lay their eggs. We found one scrabbling in the dirt last year, digging her her personal birthing hole. Oliver the pit-hound went into the swamp and brought back a painted in his jaws, holding it gingerly, but he dropped it on command. It probably didn’t taste too good anyway.
Another day a snapping turtle found the cabin, a monster of a reptile, standing there frozen when we approached and disappearing magically when we came back to check on it later. It could have been a geezer, as old as thirty.
This is a quiet time for me too, between efforts to get the word out about Love, Fiercely and The Orphanmaster, taking a break from Savage Girl. The sun shines hot on Cabinworld and it’s a lush life out on the patio, keeping an eye on those turtles.