Right after a good and loud summer storm, two deer are browsing in the eastern field, their smooth tawny fur a distinct exclamation point against the backdrop of lush emerald green that surrounds them. They move inches at a time, slowly, trying this leaf, peeling bark from that young maple sapling, chewing and strolling and thinking about whatever young deer think about an hour before sunset.

The soil beneath their hooves has never been pressed under the weight of my own feet.

Twenty years on forty-one acres, and there are still places we’ve never left our mark. Acres of mysteries and unknowns, the undersides of sassafras and sycamore leaves we haven’t rubbed with our curious fingertips. Stones in the creek, smoothed by the steady flow of its waters, and we don’t know just how smooth they feel. Birds we haven’t met or fed, coyotes we can hear yipping and howling through the meadow when all is dark, but have never seen.

In the first dozen months we settled in, learned the seasons, saw the summer give way to the autumn’s undressing and stood looking up into the bare arms of maples and oaks and buckeyes, we were determined to walk every inch of this land. Under the heading of “get acquainted”, our to-do list grew long and ambitious, but respectfully so. Even with the paperwork from the closing bearing our signatures, and the bank ready to sip at our income for monthly mortgage payments over the next thirty years, we still felt like tourists intruding on a sacred grove where the ancients continued to worship (actually, we were right about that). With city street concrete and suburban lawns the size of a postage stamp as our primary land experience before we moved here, our view was understandably—and forgiveably—narrow, and our expectations naive. One trip down the driveway with the realtor in the late winter of ‘99 blew the doors off that perspective.

But here we are in 2020, and I thought for sure we’d have tramped along the west side of the creek at least a few times by now. Instead, the rich soil there has no memories of our footsteps, grapevines have established themselves in near Tarzan-swinging thickness and strength, and we gaze at its wildness from the east side of the creek banks, standing still as a four-point buck makes his way north toward the black swamp woods for even better cover. I remember one conversation years back, when Patrick and I thought it through out loud to build a bridge across a more narrow section of the creek, all curved and Japanese garden-like, made from cedar or cherry, treated to withstand the elements. The first flood in the meadow later that year left those plans to rest in the dreamiest corners of our minds, and on this Sunday in late July, the creek still runs free of any such overhead interference, save for the essential truck-worthy bridge that lets us leave for work and groceries every week.

It’s good to stop for a few moments and reflect on what else I’ve not explored or touched or seen, not just on the land but in other aspects of my life. I won’t mention it all here, but I assure you it’s a sizable list that grows with every choice I make. And I need to be ok with that. But as I keep taking trips around the sun, I do listen to that inner urging to try something new, not necessarily a bucket list sort of quest, but more from simple human curiosity. Why not take a different way home from the office, turn right onto that gravel road I’ve always passed every other day for the past eleven years, or stop and buy cheddar popcorn at the Fredonia Mall (a sweet but misleading name describing a convenience store/gas station nestled between a couple of cornfields. But they serve deli sandwiches and elbow macaroni salad, which I now know since I stopped in for that popcorn). Life-changing? Depends on your interpretation of that phrase, but I can now say I’ve been there if someone asks.

Admittedly, much of what I haven’t done or touched is the result of convenience trumping quality. It’s easier not to hack my way through the overgrowth on both sides the creek to get to that place where we think the saw-whet owls live and hoot each night toward the end of summer. If I want to stand where the deer stood, all tawny and peaceful, I’d need to make an effort to walk across two acres of uncut and furrowed field, brushing thistle and burrs from my sleeves. I think I’ll just stay here where the grass is cut and watch from a distance. As I say it, I feel unadventurous and coddled. But I can also argue that it’s best to leave all that undisturbed ecosystem alone and unsullied by my two-legged homosapien ways. That feels just as valid and more than a bit noble.

From my place at the edge of the field, I can still imagine what it would be like to brush my open palm along that tawny fur, to see the impressions their hooves made in the soil and where they pulled that tender strip of bark from the young trunk of that maple sapling. Perhaps it’s a matter of knowing my place here, and letting contentment live in gentle balance with my curiosity. Theres still plenty to see and do and touch, even from the comfort and safety of the east side of the creek banks.

Earlier, I felt like I needed to be outside under the canopy we set up on the other side of the mulberry grove just off the front deck. I didn’t overthink it—just took myself out the door and settled into one of the lawn chairs beneath the pole-framed canvas and faced the meadow in all its sunny afternoon glory.

I am currently twelve feet from a goldfinch perched on the limb of a black walnut that sends its shade across the feeders. Her pale yellow feathers are the same color the maple leaves will be sixty days from now.

If anyone asks, I can tell them I saw her.