Before the dawn had quite shaken itself awake, the young skunk returned. Rain still stitched the air in fine threads, soft drizzle darkening the soil and whispering against leaves. The camera caught sight of the little wanderer moving with the same calm assurance as before, stripes dimmed by the hour but still bright enough to mark its passage like a brushstroke of moonlight left behind.

It nosed along the wet grass, unconcerned with the hour or the weather, a creature of patience and pattern. The world was hushed – no birdcall yet, just the steady murmur of water and the sound of its small paws through the damp. For a moment, it felt as if time had paused to let the skunk have the stage.

A reminder that even in the grayest light, there are secret visitations, wild and unhurried. The camera watched until it dissolved again into shadow and rain, leaving us with the quiet gift of its return.


Mood: Early-hour reverie.

Weather: Steady drizzle, dim sky.

Fortune: If you rise before the day, expect to meet companions who keep their own hours.

#backyardzoo #roanokeva #skunk

Junior Stinkman visits on a rainy Wednesday night

Tonight’s visitor: one damp but undeterred young skunk. Rain on and off through the evening, soft enough to make the air smell green and sharp, heavy enough to leave the ground shining.

A young skunk padded through tonight, bold stripes gleaming even under the steady patter of rain. The drops didn’t seem to trouble it much – fur beaded with water, whiskers twitching, nose low to the ground, tracing invisible paths only it could read. I half expected the wet air to carry a sharper note, but this visitor was all calm investigation, not alarm.

There’s a particular joy in these quiet encounters, where the wild simply goes about its business in our shared spaces. A reminder that even the smallest creatures have their routes and rituals, and sometimes we’re allowed a glimpse.

The rain tapped on leaves, roof, and earth in rhythm while the skunk moved unhurried, a little flash of black and white against the dusk. I watched until it melted into the shadows, tail swaying like a feathered brushstroke.

A brief visitation, a sign that life carries on through drizzle and nightfall alike. Tonight, I’ll count myself lucky to have been a still point while the young traveler passed through.

Mood: Gentle curiosity.
Weather: Drizzle tapering into mist.
Fortune: Striped paths cross yours-be mindful, tread soft, and you’ll leave the night unsoured.

Whispers tonight, not about lawns or coyotes.
This time it’s the intel grapevine.

Stories about the interstellar Atlas object.
Aluminum core, heat shields, propulsion pulses.
Closer now, slipping past radar.

Some say Webb caught it before it cloaked itself.
Signals went dark after a radiation pulse.
Conspiracies bloom like mushrooms.
Extra energy, smaller companions, glowing like tiny suns.

I don’t believe a word of it.
But I believe in how rumors grow.
How an ordinary night feels extraordinary
when someone leans in to listen.

Still, I keep an eye on the sky.
Not for drama, but to remember how small we are,
and how big the dark can be.

#porchlightstories #eveningnotes #skynotes #quietwonder #neighborhoodwhispers #smallworldbigsky #latenightthoughts #lookingup

People are whispering again. Not the usual neighborhood stuff, not who mowed whose lawn or where the coyotes are running, but something that sounds like it belongs in a different century and a different sky. The intel grapevine, the kind we all pretend doesn’t exist until it does, is full of little electric murmurs about the interstellar ATLAS object. Aluminum-type core. Heat shields. Regular propulsion pulses. Folks talk like they’re reading a badly photocopied sci-fi prop from the back of a pulp magazine, but with more acronyms and a lot less fiction.

It moved closer, they say, nudged onto a path that seems to dodge most of our radars and the kind of eyes that like to point telescopes at things. That particular detail, slipping past the usual nets, is the one that makes people lean forward in their chairs. It’s the thing that turns a rumor into something that tastes like consequence.

There’s a classified channel buzzing about public response. Not just curiosity, but uprisings, people imagining the streets full of flashlights and pitchforks and livestreams. Someone in that feed asked, plainly, Who do you tell first? The town marshal? Congress? The guy who runs the diner? You can almost hear the worry in the typing: if this is recon, if it’s data collection, how do you tell a population that loves its routines that the routines are being watched?

Then the Webb folks, yes, the big mirror in space, caught something strange on the latest observation. The object went dark. Literally went dark after what the notes call a radiation pulse. One minute it’s there, humming along; the next it’s as if someone closed their shutters. Cloaking. Blocking signals from Earth. Fancy words that make late-night callers sound like they’ve swallowed every episode of every alien show ever produced.

And the conspiracies bloom like mushrooms after rain. Energy profile many megawatts higher than expected. Nine or ten smaller, companion bits with the same metallic makeup, each packing what looks like even more power, but in a tinier form. Little suns in their own right, only they’re not suns, because they orbit and pulse and dodge our instruments.

I sat back with that one and just listened. The thrill of it, the delicious, terrible possibility, is a kind of weather. It blows through forums and kitchens and the back booths of bars. People trade theories like baseball cards, and sometimes you can see the shape of a story forming in the way they trade the facts and leave the feelings to do the heavy lifting.

Here’s the thing: I don’t believe a word of any of it. Which isn’t the same as saying I don’t believe anything at all. I believe in how rumors grow. I believe in the human habit of making sense out of fog by arranging it into patterns that look like meaning. I believe in the way an ordinary night becomes extraordinary when you tell it to someone who leans in. I believe, stubbornly, like an old dog, in ordinary explanations until something proves otherwise.

Still, I keep an eye on the sky. Not because I’m expecting drama, but because looking up is a good way to remember how small we are, and how big the world is, and because sometimes the quietest whispers carry the strangest truths. Even if this one turns out to be nothing more than static and hopeful imagination, it’s given us stories to pass around the porch light. That, at least, is real.

#eveningnotes #porchlightstories #neighborhoodwhispers #lookingup #quietwonder #skynotes #smallworldbigsky #listeningin #latenightthoughts

The light along the Greenway was low and polite that night, like neighbors nodding across a fence. I was halfway through my coffee and the world was the small, honest size it has before morning picks up its pace. Then someone on the porch said, soft as a secret, “You ever hear about the Wampus cat?”

That name keeps its claws hidden in the throat of a story. Wampus – a hiss and a hush stitched together. Folks will tell you it’s a thing of moonlight fur and wrong shadows, that it walks on two legs when it wants to be clever and on four when it wants to be a memory. Around here people point toward Mill Mountain, the river bends, the old logging roads that forget the wheels that once cut them. I went looking in the quiet places, mostly to keep my feet moving and my mind from fretting about small, human troubles.

I’ve seen bobcats in the scrub and once watched a fox practice magic with a chicken bone. Those are animals with a name and a ledger; the Wampus keeps a ledger but it writes in different ink. A neighbor told me about two pale shapes that blinked on the edge of the yard, tall and watching, and how the chickens grew uneasy for a week after. Another friend said she heard a song – not a howl, not a purr – a slow questioning that stopped when she answered with her own breath.

People laugh and say “tall tale,” and they’re right sometimes. But other times a laugh is a kind of apology for the part of ourselves that believes in things that belong to the dark.

If you stand where the city light thins and the pines stand like patient weather, you start to hear the country talk. It sounds like twig and wind and the distant clink of something settling. The Wampus lives in those sounds – or maybe it lives in the space that wants them to mean more. In my backyard camera footage long lost, there was a shape that moved like a heavy coat being shrugged on: too long-legged for a housecat, too smooth for a raccoon. The white of its eyes caught the tiny infrared like coins.

Stories change with the telling. Old-timers say the Wampus is the woman of the hills  – part witch, part cat, part consequence. Schoolkids say it’s a genetic trick, something mixed up in the woods. Hunters say it’s a big black cat with a sense of self and a grudge. Me? I keep my door latched at night and my camera pointing toward the dark, because I like being polite to whatever’s passing through. I leave a little light on the back steps and a bowl of water when the summer is cruel. Maybe that’s superstition. Maybe it’s neighborly.

There’s magic in admitting you don’t know. It’s friendlier than pretending you’re not a little afraid. If the Wampus pads by one evening and sniffs my compost bin, I’ll be gentle in my surprise. I’ll take a picture with a steady hand and then sit with the image while the coffee goes cold. These are the kinds of stories that make our yards wider than property lines, that remind us the place is shared whether we like it or not.

If you’re in Roanoke and you hear something that sounds like a question in the trees, tip your head and answer back with the small things: a soft voice, a light on the porch, a courteous bowl of water. The Wampus – whatever it is – likes a place where people are careful.

#roanokeva #wampuscat #cryptid #backyardzoo

One of the Stinkman family visited again last night, and today is the equinox. 🍂

First day of autumn. The air carries a different weight, cool and slightly brittle at the edges, as if the world has been rinsed clean overnight and set out to dry. Shadows feel longer, stretching with more confidence than the summer ones. A light wind tugged at the trees this morning, and a few early leaves gave in to the season, drifting down like trial balloons for what’s coming.

Coffee on the porch was accompanied by the quiet rustle of squirrels in the hedge, busily shuffling acorns into secret places. A crow cawed overhead, loud and insistent, the voice of some small herald announcing that the season has turned. I always feel that shift in my bones before I can name it, like the year has quietly opened a new chapter.

The backyard camera caught one of the skunk kids at about 4 this morning, just a brief wander under the dim glow, nosing through the grass in search of earthworms. A quiet little reminder that the yard has its own rhythms and its own calendar, separate but in tune with mine.

I walked out back and could almost smell woodsmoke that wasn’t there yet, only the promise of it. The grass is damp in a way that suggests cooler nights, a thin thread of fog hanging in the low ground just after sunrise.

It feels like an invitation. Time to lean into the rhythm of sweaters, early dusks, and lantern light. Autumn begins not with a bang, but with a quiet nod, the softest of thresholds.

#firstdayofautumn #roanokeva #backyardzoo #skunk #seasonschange

der Waldschrat

Noun (colloquial, sometimes humorous)

Literally: forest goblin

Pronunciation (for English speakers):

VALT-shraht

Meaning: an eccentric, reclusive person who lives in or is strongly associated with the forest (often described as shabby, wild-looking, and out of touch with modern society)

Example:

“Seit er in der Hütte im Wald lebt, gilt er als richtiger Waldschrat.”

“Since he’s been living in the cabin in the woods, people call him a real forest hermit.”

Fun Fact:

The word combines Wald (forest) and Schrat. In Germanic folklore, a Schrat was a woodland spirit, sometimes friendly, sometimes mischievous, and often linked with goblin- or dwarf-like figures in Middle High German texts. Over time, the mythical meaning faded. Today Waldschrat describes a person instead: someone who isolates themselves in the woods, appears unkempt, or seems out of touch with modern life. Depending on tone, it can be mocking, affectionate, or

humorous.

Related Words:

der Einsiedler – hermit

der Kauz – oddball, eccentric (literally “owl”)

weltfremd – unworldly, out of touch

Before dawn, the yard is not mine, but theirs. A family of skunks wanders through, soft as dream smoke. The papa carries a tail so black it seems to swallow the night whole, a living shadow drifting across the grass. The mama follows, her plume white and luminous, a lantern acting as a beacon for the little ones. Between them, four kits tumble together, traveling not so much in a line as in a shifting, rolling knot. They are fluff and tiny legs, bright snouts sniffing the air, a handful of poofy tails bobbing like dandelions let loose.

They pause at the edge of the garden, and all at once, the kits scatter a little, then reform their fuzzy constellation, a star cluster reorganizing itself under watchful eyes. Papa noses the ground. Mama lingers at the fence. The kits wriggle in their living bundle, then sway forward again, unified by some invisible cord of scent and instinct.

It is still dark, but the air feels awake with their passing, as if they bring a hush of ceremony with them. The cameras watch from the bench, unseen, using night vision so as not to disturb their procession. The world belongs to them for a while, as the sky softens toward morning.

#backyardzoo #roanokeva #skunk

The camera caught a pair of visitors in the backyard last night, one after the other, as though they were taking turns under the cover of the early dark.

The first was a striking one, mostly white across the back, carrying a low-slung but full, snowy tail that hung low like a lantern puff of smoke drifting close to the ground. It lingered a while, slow and deliberate, before melting back into the shadows.

Not long after, from the left, a smaller figure appeared. This one wore a two-tone coat along its back, the classic dark broken by pale stripes, with a tail more upright and poofy than the first. Quick steps, curious pauses, and then it too slipped out of sight.

Two brief chapters, one after the other, written in black and white fur on the dark green edges of the yard.

Current mood: is sleepy a mood?
Music: Miles Davis – Blue in Green

#roanokeva #backyardzoo #skunk

A new skunk passed through the yard early this morning, though I only discovered it later while watching the night’s camera clips. It felt a bit like a secret visit, a calling card left behind.

This one walked with a certain careful pride, tail curled up like a feathered hat, as though on its way to some early appointment. Not hurried, not shy – just deliberate, the way a creature might be if it already knew it belonged here.

I caught myself thinking of it as a newcomer neighbor making introductions. Maybe it will meet the others who’ve been drifting through lately. Maybe they already share a map of the night, invisible to me until the camera gives away a corner.

I like knowing the yard is host to all these small travelers, even when I’m not awake to greet them.

#roanokeva #skunk #backyardzoo

https://youtu.be/TsiateGOPZk

Friendly Reminder – Columbo says:

Don’t talk to the police until you get an attorney!

To protect yourself when speaking with the police, state that you want to remain silent, you want a lawyer, and you do not consent to any searches, and then calmly leave if you are free to do so. Always remain calm, don’t lie, and do not resist or interfere with the police. If your rights are violated, gather any available details, like badge numbers, and file a complaint with their agency.

Key phrases to use:

“I want to remain silent”

“I want to speak to a lawyer”

“I do not consent to a search”

“Am I free to leave?”

What to do during an interaction

Remain Calm: Keep your voice calm and avoid hostile or argumentative language.

Don’t Speak Unnecessarily: Do not provide explanations or stories; exercise your right to remain silent.

Do Not Consent to a Search: Politely refuse any request for a search of your person, car, or home by saying, “I do not consent to a search”.

Ask if You Can Leave: Ask, “Am I free to leave?” This determines if you are being detained or are under arrest. If the answer is yes, then leave calmly.

Ask for a Lawyer: If you are arrested or interrogated, ask for a lawyer immediately.
Record the Interaction: If possible, record the conversation and note down details, such as officer names or badge numbers.

What not to do

Don’t argue or resist

Do not argue with, run from, or resist the police.

Don’t lie: It is a criminal offense to knowingly lie to an officer.

Don’t agree to meet at the station: Police may say they want you to come to the station to “clear some things up,” but you should not do so without legal representation.

If you believe your rights have been violated:

Document everything

Write down all details you remember from the encounter, including badge numbers and car numbers.

Report the incident

File a complaint with the officer’s agency’s internal affairs division or a civilian oversight board.

Last night I caught myself turning over that old phrase like a pebble in the pocket: your vibe attracts your tribe. It feels a little bumper sticker, a little new-age coffee mug, but there’s something sticky in it that doesn’t wash off.

We’re radios, each of us, humming on whatever frequency we’ve tuned ourselves to. Sometimes low, sometimes bright, sometimes static-filled. Walk through the world long enough and you’ll notice – people tuned close to you pick up your signal. They lean in. They nod. They laugh in rhythm with the same kind of odd jokes you thought only you enjoyed. The rest? They drift by like ships that never caught your lantern’s flash.

I see it online too – threads weaving together in unexpected ways, a dozen kindred spirits showing up in the comment section like they’ve all been circling, waiting for the same lighthouse. Offline, it’s the folks who smile at the same stray cat on the sidewalk, or the ones who instinctively hold the door without calculation. Small markers, soft flares.

It makes me wonder what frequency I’m radiating this week. Am I sending out late-night porchlight calm? Or the frazzled static of too many browser tabs? Either way, those signals echo back in kind faces, gentle nudges, or sometimes silence that says “time to retune.”

Maybe the trick is less about attracting and more about allowing. Shine your little frequency honest and unfiltered, and the right people will hear it, hum along, maybe even harmonize.

And if you’re reading this? Odds are, we’re already on the same station.

#roanokeva
#yourvibeattractsyourtribe
#birdsofafeather
#greatmindsthinkalike #foolsseldomdiffer

A ginger cat came by today, padding into view with the quiet certainty that only cats seem to carry. His coat glowed warm against the cooler tones of the evening, as if he carried a little bit of sunlight with him wherever he wandered. He paused just long enough to glance around, ears flicking, tail low in cautious stalking.

There’s something about these creature visits that feels less like chance and more like a small gift. A reminder that the world is stitched together not only by our errands and routines, but by these fleeting threads of life passing through. He looked at ease, at home, as if every porch and yard is part of his map. Cats like him seem to drift between households, between lives, touching each with a light paw and then moving on again.

When he slipped away, it was without ceremony – simply a turn, a stretch, and he was gone. What’s left behind is the soft impression of presence, a memory that lingers longer than the moment itself. A golden shadow, and a little more color in the day.

Current mood: quietly charmed
Current music: Bill Evans – Peace Piece


#gingercat #neighborhoodcat #roanokeva #quietmoments #dailyvisitors #catvisit

Last night’s visitor was a slip of fur, no bigger than two palms cupped together. A tiny bunny came up to the porch, pausing like a shy traveler who has taken a wrong turn. It was late enough that the world was softened with quiet, the kind of quiet where you can hear the crickets speak in steady rhythm and the night breeze move leaves like a deck of cards being shuffled slow.

The little one froze for a moment, tiny ears up, body still as if carved from shadow and moonlight. Then a twitch of the nose, a shift of paws, and it dared a step closer, investigating some unseen secret only rabbits know.

It didn’t stay long. A few breaths, a whisker’s time, and then it bounded back into the dark, swallowed up by grass and mystery. But for that moment, it was just the porch and bunny, a small sweetness stitched into the evening.

I half expect to see it again tonight, checking in like a neighbor, making sure the world keeps its gentle corners.

#backyardzoo #rabbit #bunny #roanokeva