Under The Guanacaste

Night time. Cicadas on full volume their song filling the night until the rain starts to fall and their volume softens immediately with the first drops. Two owls hoot from the branches above me.

I sit on the swing in the darkness my headlamp turned off.

I’ve just put the chickens to bed.  One was roosting on the door frame so I scooped her up and put her on a perch.  Another was on the ground.  I scooped her up too and put her where she should have been.  The one on the ground might be dead in the morning.  A few months ago the thought would have bothered me but not so much now.  I have seen many chickens die.  Everything likes chickens.  

I wonder if the two turkeys I’ve ordered will come this weekend - living ones to add to my list of farm creatures. 

I stare up into the branches and listen for the owls.

My dogs are barking.  The hunters are back.  Poachers looking for armadillos at night time.  They travel with their hunting dogs too near to my property not to be noticed.  I’ve let out my fiercest dog.  I hope he bites them.

Indoors the kids are going to sleep.  Jago has a wobbly tooth.  He wanted me to pull it out but the thought makes me squeamish.  Nina is not squeamish but she flat out refuses to put her hand in her brothers mouth.  

I feel steeped in comfort.  The warm air.  The sounds.  The lights of my home.  The knowledge my children are safe inside.  My dogs.  Even the cat sitting beside me.  

What I have feels like something we should all have.  

Home.  Wild peace.  Centredness.  Night sky stars.  Warmth.  

A swing in a guanacaste.  

A home tree.