Jun 8, 2018 3 min read

Spring has brought the babies to our yard.

Right around the time the rhododendrons burst forth in purple, the next generation arrived. Our wooded yard is full of small, scampering versions of the wildlife that has surrounded us since we moved here.

There are baby squirrels, groups of three and four of them chasing each other in tight circles while their mothers, larger and less frantic, watch from tree branches above. Baby birds hop across the gravel driveway, poking around for seeds and bugs. Seeing them, I think about all the nests there must have been all spring, perched far above our heads, their builders waiting for the eggs to hatch.

The groundhog that sauntered across the driveway on his way to a leaf-covered drainpipe seemed to be growing larger as the weeks went by. Maybe he is a she, and maybe I haven’t seen her lately because she’d grown fat with babies and is tending to them in that pipe now.

We are outnumbered by new life in these woods. Even the buzz and whir of lawn equipment can’t drown out the sound of the chirp and chatter.

Last Sunday morning, we were sitting on the sofa drinking coffee and looking out the glass doors into the side yard.

The farmer, who gets as happy about wild animals as he does about anything, leaned forward.

“Two baby fawns were just born,” he said.

I squinted to see, but couldn’t.

“I mean, right now,” he said. “There’s the mother and she just delivered two little babies.”

Just then, the doe stood up, struggling to get her legs under her. Her belly was swollen and drooping. She lowered her head into the grass, and then I saw them.

Two wet, dark brown babies, one smaller than the other. The larger one was fumbling, his legs bending and folding like a cheap canvas chair. Soon enough, he took one step and then another and reached his head toward his mother’s belly to eat.

“I think the little one might be sick,” the farmer said. “He might not make it.” These are the things the farmer worries about and cause him to lose sleep.

By now the mother was feeding one baby while prodding the other out of the grass. Nature’s like that, isn’t it? A doe will commonly have two or more fawns in a litter, but the likelihood of all surviving six months is not that good. The bigger baby was getting all the milk while his sibling lay in the grass.

“He’s up,” said the farmer. Finally, the smaller baby appeared, his head poking above the grass. He teetered, disappeared again, and then popped back up. The mother licked him and nudged him toward her belly. She looked exhausted.

And then it began to rain, big soft drops that fell sideways against the glass doors. The mother started walking toward a thicker stand of trees, and the babies followed, the tiny one nestled between the mother and the big brother.

Or sister. We couldn’t tell. When we humans have babies, we know immediately if they’re boy or girl – it’s most of the anticipation of the arrival.

But here in my yard it’s different. As I watch, I don’t know boy from girl, it’s just squirrels and birds and groundhogs and two tiny baby deer. It’s just spring.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.