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ran together through the streets of whatever city we happened to be in. When his health began to decline and he was unable to accompany me, I found I ran less, opting for a run-walk combination. It was difficult watching age catch up with him. I thought of him as invincible. More and more, I slowed my pace until my treks became strolls. Age seemed to be catching up with me as well. Now at sixty-seven, I rationalized it was time to stop pushing myself, that I should be content to walk at leisure.
    This first morning in Tullulah, while watching the passing scenery of woods and fields, I felt young again. The sounds of early morning birds chirping with no competition from vehicles, machinery, or other aural assaults of city life absolutely invigorated me. I found myself wanting to step up my pace, to sprint out to a point up ahead as I had done so many times racing the Colonel. I quickened to a slow run. My body informed me straight away that this must be a gradual process, now that the old heart was a bit out of practice. I returned to the house, out of breath but happier than I had been in a long time.
    After pouring another glass of water and lemon, I set the coffeepot to brew and stepped outside onto the stone patio just beyond the back porch. It had been my intention to go through my Tai Chi routine there. However, once on it, I realized the surface was too uneven. I decided instead to try a small clearing between three oak trees near the edge of my lawn. It was perfect, just the right amount of space to do my moves comfortably. Once in the movements, my mind and body seemed to leave the world and drift among the high branches of the oaks.
    Time reversed. The cool breeze carried me back, the years flying past, as if it were the same breeze I’d felt many years before, learning the slow movements in a San Francisco park not long after the Colonel and I married, the beginning of my life. And here, in the fresh air moving over mountain woods and springs, my arms moved in circles, like everything in life, and came around to start again.
    On my return to the kitchen, I thought I might bake a pan of biscuits. I’d have a few with coffee then take the rest in a tin to Cal. After his night of drinking, they might be just the thing for a light breakfast. I turned from the stove and stepped toward the pantry where I’d put a new sack of flour.
    I’d reached the center of the floor when something crunched underfoot. With a quick step back, I looked down to find I’d crushed a tiny acorn. I couldn’t believe my eyes. In addition to it, another sat beside it, whole, having escaped its brother’s fate. I blinked and pushed my glasses up hard against the bridge of my nose for a clearer look.
    Surely these had not been here the night before. I’d swept the floor clean before Cal’s visit and afterward had gone straight to bed. Then I remembered the sounds I’d heard in the night. Could these tiny things have been the cause? A check of the faucets in the kitchen and the downstairs bathroom sink and tub yielded no leaks. As I returned to the kitchen, I surmised that a chipmunk or squirrel must have come inside while the doors were left open for the furniture to be moved in. Apparently, my visitor was thoughtful enough to bring a gift. I would have to leave the door open again so the little fellow could get out, if he was indeed still inside.
    With rich coffee and a couple of biscuits in me, I grabbed the tin of extras. I’d located my binoculars the night before and put them out so I wouldn’t forget them. I scooped them up along with a small wire-bound notebook and set out for my day’s adventure. To my surprise, Cal was there at his gate, waiting on me.
    We began to laugh and talk all at once. Homer joined our conversation in barks and woofs that, on occasion, had an astounding resemblance to speech.
    “Hush, Homer,” Cal said. “You’ll have to excuse him. He gets to talking sometimes and don’t know when to quit.”
    Cal