Who Owns This Land

Who Owns This Land WHO OWNS THIS LAND WILMA DYKEMAN WINTERSPRING 1985 ho owns this place where I live. WOh, I have a legal title to it. My name is duly recorded on a deed duly registered in the processes of human commerce and law. But this is only one kind of possession. Perhaps it is the least important possession. 85 Consider the other inhabitants on my acres. Th ere are the cardinals that winter here, appear at my feeding station, build nests in the spring, dart with flashes of scarlet brilliance through the greenery of summer or the white snows of winter. Th ey are worried by no boundary lines designating ownership. Th ere are the mockingbirds that seek out the highest limbs from which to pour forth their liquid dazzling variety of songs and calls, and the plump mourning doves that run along the ground or wing on short flights from one low tree limb to another. Th ere are the robins that enliven my lawn with their neat, attentive presence, and the starlings that roar in periodically—scrounging and greedy. Th ey await no invitation to visit or inhabit this place that must be designated “ours.” Th ere are the insects http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081

Abstract

WHO OWNS THIS LAND WILMA DYKEMAN WINTERSPRING 1985 ho owns this place where I live. WOh, I have a legal title to it. My name is duly recorded on a deed duly registered in the processes of human commerce and law. But this is only one kind of possession. Perhaps it is the least important possession. 85 Consider the other inhabitants on my acres. Th ere are the cardinals that winter here, appear at my feeding station, build nests in the spring, dart with flashes of scarlet brilliance through the greenery of summer or the white snows of winter. Th ey are worried by no boundary lines designating ownership. Th ere are the mockingbirds that seek out the highest limbs from which to pour forth their liquid dazzling variety of songs and calls, and the plump mourning doves that run along the ground or wing on short flights from one low tree limb to another. Th ere are the robins that enliven my lawn with their neat, attentive presence, and the starlings that roar in periodically—scrounging and greedy. Th ey await no invitation to visit or inhabit this place that must be designated “ours.” Th ere are the insects

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Mar 16, 2018

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