#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
To the meadow in bright sunshine where every step is a new bloom, a weed or wildflower blooming in June. A path is mowed through the large meadow over the trestle bridge. Returning through woods, I'm arrested by the tall jack-in-the-pulpit peeking at me from the side of the trail near the brook - a pure delight so see this tall, exquisite striped hood. I'm home, but I'm not ready to go in. I wander the field in front of our house facing the river, and here is a broken white shell with some of the yolk pooling in the bottom. A nest in the field, dug very recently by a mother snapper has been dug up and raided by a fox or a skunk or a coyote during the night. She tries so hard to protect the eggs she lays before lumbering back to her home in the river. She covers them with dirt, tamps it down, and even pulls some bits of hay, grass, or straw over the top for camouflage. She takes every precaution she can. She does this even though she will never know the outcome: she will not see what hatches, she will not meet her babies, even if they make it, in September, from their shells, from their nests, across the field into the river. She did what came naturally to her, to reproduce. She did her best. The eggs are vulnerable, there is alway uncertainty, always risk. This egg fed a hungry predator who snuck away at daylight before the dogs were out.
All photos and text copyright 2018 by Kelly DuMar