The wild is always close to the tame--the sharp smell of sweat in a mirror-lined room, fruit flies drowning in a glass of wine, raccoons prowling manicured lawns--but at Fresh Pond, where we walked this morning, the contrasts were no less apparent.
The meadow has been restored to its wild tangle of yarrow and lupine; and below, the newly installed curved bench, a memorial to a dead spouse, is made from a sunken ship's timber salvaged off the Carolinas.
Here is another bench in the shape of a relaxed "W."
And another, contrived to appear rustic.
As we came up the hilly path near the end of our walk, a cool breeze blew up; a mass of milkweed crowded a field, attracting monarch butterflies; rather than fighting the wind they rode the current.
When we got home, we found an inky-purple, seedy deposit on the wooden walk to the back door. Some creature had left it.