We have a woodchuck that lives with us. Well, not in the house (we have no wood to chuck) but around and about, on the sandy bank and the weedy septic. It has a condo in the rock face crack, with a roof terrace and eighth floor balcony. That’s the kind of real estate you acquire when you’re a ground hog.
It’s mostly busy eating: clover and daisies and raspberries.
But this evening, it’s hanging out. Not doing anything. Just sitting there.
It’s got no books, no phone, no Netflix.
Just woodchuck and the buzzing of the flies and the shushing of the leaves; the flapping of a blue jays’ wings and the scent of seeds.
It’s got a whole world of amazement right there. The world’s full of it.