It's a cheerful, delightful morning meadow walk on my thirtieth wedding anniversary. How grateful I am to be living here and now

where

the beaver busily chomps the tree in the vine covered brook all night long

where

beside the trestle bridge overlooking the Charles as I cross to the meadow, the cheery yellow common mullein is bursting into into bloom

where

in the un-ravished meadow, the gypsy moths have yet to hatch and devour all, the milkweed is fresh, unspoiled, visited only by the bees 

where

in this town, thirty years ago today, I lived. It was an overcast Saturday, slightly cool, just like this

where

all this Junely activity of plants, bees and beavers was happening, just like it is today

where

I was busy - oblivious - to this thrumming backdrop

where

in between dressing for my wedding ceremony I was packing to leave New England

to pull up my roots to make a new home with my new husband in Florida

only

almost eight years later, to return with my husband, my children, to plant ourselves, to root and grow our new home on the river

this place

where

I belong to the meadow, the river the woods