Something’s eating your asparagus, and it isn’t you. Invisible forces are destroying an elderberry bush, while everything around it flourishes. Half of an evenly irrigated pasture is dotted with desiccated grass. The other half is fine. What’s going on?
Fresh snow muffles my footsteps on the less-traveled paths of Smuggler Mountain Open Space. It’s a place of quiet winter reverie. That is, until the silence is shattered by a burst of staccato chatter that could, as they say, wake the dead.