I had no idea Emily Dickinson had written a poem about me and my meadow.

The bee is not afraid of me

The bee is not afraid of me,

I know the butterfly;

The pretty people in the woods

Receive me cordially.

The brooks laugh louder when I come,

The breezes madder play.

Wherefore, mine eyes, they silver mists?

Wherefore, O summer's day?

The poem so exactly fits me when I enter the loop on our walks. Of course the bee and butterfly part is true all the time. I like it. It offers me a sense of my own magic.

Speaking of magic. The Harolds worked their magic last night. Twice if my ears do not deceive me. Now whether there was a bear or not, I have no idea. By the time I was up to investigate, and bang if necessary, the deck was empty. Maybe a squirrel ran by or a bird flew although neither of them have been around since I started using the Pine Sol. Anyway - I like the Harolds. Harold of the Hose ~ he is perched on the hose box; and Harold the Hoot ~ on the counter by the window. Motion-sensitive handsome owls to be turned on and off as we wish. Last night they did their work well.