It’s one of those days that reminds me why I live in Maine–all sharp-edged clarity and cool low humidity. Sun streaming and the air scented with a potpourri of scents: lilac, wisteria, lily of the valley, and freshly mown grass. I putter about the yard, moving from garden to garden, enjoying my haphazard wandering, surrounded by bountiful evidence of spring’s entrenchment. I weed here and there, spread some mulch. Every so often I stop to admire tendrils of growth or newly emerged blooms. To gently brush variegated leaves. I’m deeply and utterly content to be where I am, doing what I’m doing.

I reach into the half-weeded side garden, where bee balm and evening primrose thrive along with some needs-to-be weeded long grass. I lean further in to pick up a plastic pot filled with hard and shrunken soil. I’d had sweet peas in there last year, hoping they would wind there way up the side of the outbuilding. No such luck. What might I do this year?

The day shifts to shudder when I see, or sense a flash of movement and feel a sudden slithering whisper over the back of my hand. My shriek shatters the crystal blue tranquility of the day. I drop the pot, jumping backward, and recognize the sinuous form–SNAKE– in the same instant that it computes:

OMG! It just slithered over my hand!!!

The pot tumbles back to earth and there’s a flash of muscular scales as the snake nestles further into the shadow between the pot and the earth. I hold my hand to my heart, struggling to slow its frantic pace.

After a few minutes I step forward, my curiosity getting the better of me. In my mind, my favorite mantra of all time loops on repeat: There are NO poisonous snakes in Maine! There are NO poisonous snakes in Maine! I’m pretty sure it must be a garter snake. I can remember my grandmother speaking fondly to them in her own garden. I’m not sure I’m up to that, but still, I’m slowly drawn forward.

At first I can only see one bend of snake, looped up over the soil. The sheen of overlapping scales is almost beautiful. Almost. Then I see the head, tucked down into the shadows. A glimmer of eye. The snake is clearly watching me and is also clearly entrenched. After a few moments, I go inside to get my camera and return to take a few photos. The distance of a lens is always helpful.

It isn’t too long before I realize that it isn’t just one snake. There are actually TWO of them. I can’t suppress another little shudder. One is bolder and pops its head out. Its tongue flickers wildly, no doubt trying to pinpoint my presence. I see the forked black end of the tongue emerge over and over, noting how it turns to red when the tongue is fully emerged. I’m sort of grotesquely fascinated. This snake and I lock eyes as I take a few photos. I murmur a few reassurances. I won’t hurt it, but I’m not going to pet it either!

We pass several long moments together. My heart settles down. We watch each other carefully. The small space between us hums with possibility.

After a while, I leave the snake and return to my puttering. Every so often I cast a wary eye toward that garden. Perhaps the primrose and bee balm will thrive even with the weeds in their midst. It seems I’ll be sharing that garden for the summer. Now that I’m aware of that, I’m sort of…maybe…okay with it. But I’m pretty sure I won’t be weeding much there.

On this Monday of our week of spring break, the clouds drew me outside early. Something about their arrangement over the smooth line of the barn roof caught my eye, so I ventured out, camera in hand. I had snapped a photo when, out of the corner of my eye, I heard a flutter, saw a whisper of movement. I glanced over to see the door to an outbuilding had come open during the night–or perhaps been left open after all our yard work yesterday.

Looking in, I saw a small bird fluttering up and down, trying to escape through the window–though the open door was just as close. I stepped inside and slowly walked over to the window. As I neared, I reached my hands to the window sill, where the bird was now huddled, to pick it up. I placed my hands about it–felt the scrabble of feet, the quick flutter of wings, the insubstantial weight of flight. It quickly stilled within my cupped hands, and I murmured reassuringly, It’s okay. Why, you’re a sweet little white throated sparrow, aren’t you? You’re such a tiny one! Let’s get you out of here now.

Keeping up my inane crooning, I stepped outside the building and slowly opened my hands. The bird, after the slightest of hesitations, flew directly to the birch tree to perch. My spirits lifted with its flight. It really was okay! A red-bellied woodpecker sang out jubilantly from a nearby tree, calling again and again. I watched my breath cloud in the chilly air, tuned in to bright day around me, to the gradual greening, the myriad bird calls. I watched the small sparrow rub its beak against the birch bark.

Then there was a sudden crash and clamor from the brush in the side yard, and I looked over to see a flurry of movement. Deer! My pleasure at seeing them wasn’t enitrely unadultered, as I’d already taken note of some decimated tulips under the apple tree. Still, I couldn’t fail to mostly delight in their presence. They stopped just over the ridge toward the neighbor’s yard, and I counted. One. Two. Three. Four. One looked steadily through the branches at me for long minutes. Then another. Then, in a sudden silent coordinated moment, they took off, loping away–all elegant limbs and tawny pelts, flashing white tail flags as they left.

I turned to walk back inside and return to my coffee. A white throated sparrow called over and over again. The clouds still dotted brilliant blue skies.

Ah, what a lovely way to start the morning.