When people talk about a quiet, peaceful neighborhood, they usually mean low traffic, polite neighbors and the gentle hum of suburban life. I have one of those, but with a twist. Living on the edge of a wetlands reserve sounds peaceful and idyllic and it is, in that “National Geographic meets suburban living” kind of way. My street is blissfully quiet, mostly because there’s little automobile traffic due to it being the “edge of civilization”.
On the other hand, my backyard is like Grand Central Station for wildlife. I’m not complaining, though. It’s like having my own personal nature documentary playing out in my yard. My street’s unofficial Neighborhood Watch includes a hawk, a fox and at least one raccoon with questionable morals.
Like everyone, I have squirrels in the backyard. You know, those little furry daredevils who think the bird feeder is an obstacle course built just for them. I’m positive they’ve unionized. I’m convinced they hold strategy meetings to plan new ways to bypass the squirrel-proof bird feeder. (Spoiler: “squirrel-proof” is just marketing code for “squirrels will take this as a personal challenge”.)
The supporting cast out here gets a bit more dramatic. Some mornings I glance out the window to see a hawk perching on my fence post, scanning the neighborhood for scurrying snacks. A bald eagle flies overhead once in a while too, just to remind everyone who’s the top dog — well, top bird — around here. It’s beautiful, impressive and a stark reminder that the food chain is very much an active outdoor dining experience.
The four-legged crowd is a whole other story. Rabbits hop through like they’re late for a tea party. They’re basically our furry lawnmowers. The raccoons are the night shift, conducting their secret business under the cover of darkness. They come in wearing their little bandit masks, rummaging through my trash like they’re looking for clues. The fox is smooth, charming and clearly up to something. We’re still trying to figure out the plan. The skunks? They make their grand entrance with zero warning and leave behind a fragrant reminder that the world belongs to them. And the coyotes? They like to hold their howling jam sessions at 2 AM, because apparently that’s when their muse strikes.
Canada Geese show up in rowdy mobs, treating my lawn like it’s the dance floor at a wedding reception. They honk, they waddle, they leave “party favors” everywhere. Once in a while a deer wanders through, looking politely confused, as if to say, “Excuse me, is this the salad bar?” before giving me that “oh, sorry, wrong yard” look and trotting away. I’m pretty sure I’m being judged on my lawn care skills. Once a family of field mice tried to move in, until other animals decided the lease terms weren’t in the mice’s favor. The ensuing turf war was more of a rapid, one-sided evacuation and I haven’t seen a mouse since.
Down in the wetlands pond, there are fish and turtles, living their best aquatic lives. Thankfully, the water stays low enough that they don’t visit me personally. I like them from a distance, the way some people like their in-laws.
Living here is a little wild, literally, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My back yard neighbors may not always be human, but they’re far more entertaining. Out here, the HOA meetings involve actual squawking, chittering and howling and the fines come in the form of Canada Goose droppings on my driveway. If nothing else, I’ve learned that life is more fun when you share your backyard with a bald eagle, a fox and about 42 squirrels. I’m grateful for the quiet and I’ve accepted that my backyard is a never-ending nature documentary.
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