The valley turns green from the bottom up.
The lawn on the slopes leading to the house breathes untamed, its tall blades swaying in the spring breeze like tousled hair. Grape hyacinths dot the grass with purple stars, while buttercups and periwinkle paint secret constellations across this living canvas.
In the wilder sections of the property, where the earth lies exposed and free from the still-sleeping shadows of the trees, the first plants to answer spring’s call stretch toward the light. Native grasses, Clover, Solomon’s Seal, and Toadshade unfurl in silent celebration, weaving a living carpet beneath branches that hold only the promise of leaves.
After March’s barren table, deer feast with quiet joy on this sudden abundance. For the pregnant does—most carrying twins or triplets beneath their hearts—nourishment arrives just as their reserves dwindle to dangerous levels. Soon enough, summer’s dappled forest light will provide the perfect cloak for spotted coats, and wobbly fawns will emerge, hungry for their mothers’ rich milk.
When the last meeting of the day fades from the screen, sunlight still bathes the valley in gold. My wheels press gentle paths through lush grass, my miracle chair conquering slopes that seem impossible for any wheelchair to climb. Its remarkable gyroscopic steadiness tempts me toward muddy trails threading between awakening trees. But tonight, out of fondness for my clean wooden floors, I follow the land’s gentle fold toward the stream. With ears tuned for the first frog song of spring, I breathe in air thick with oxygen and the green perfume of lilies embroidering the water’s edge.
Rounding the yard’s corner, a screen of restlessly whispering bamboo—foreign and insistent in these Pennsylvania woods—gives way to reveal the neighbor’s unmowed meadow. There, bathed in the warm glow of setting spring light, four deer rise from the living grass. Sleep-soft eyes blink slowly at the world. Their winter-thin bodies have begun to fill, their dull coats now catching the light like polished copper. They stretch in the generous warmth after months of shivering cold and hollow bellies.
Time has dissolved their fear of me. My silent wheels gliding across the grass register as little threat to their wild senses. They allow my approach with barely a twitch of an ear or tail. Undisturbed, they rise without hurry, part the green growth at the water’s edge, and lower gentle muzzles to the clear, cool stream. Water drips from their bristled chins as they lift their heads, returning to the feast spread across the meadow.
Golden light illuminates us all—touching new green shoots, warming chestnut fur, dancing on clear water, glinting off tiny leaves forming in the treetops, and resting on my still body. Birds weave their evening tapestry of sound. The stream speaks its ancient language. In this moment, nothing is separate; everything is complete.