For most of the summer, the geese have been one of the most noticeable parts of the puddle. Families moving along the shoreline, littles growing bigger by the week, everyone learning where to eat, where to rest, and where they belonged.
Now the littles of 2026 can fly.
The families are beginning to explore farther from the puddle, and this morning I realized that their absence may have created an opening for someone much smaller.
Pumpkin. That is the name Hadley gave our chipmunk. There was no particular reason for the name, at least none she could explain, which somehow makes it feel even more appropriate.
We had not seen much of Pumpkin lately, but this morning I spent nearly ten minutes watching him make the same little journey over and over again.
From the shed to the maple tree. From the maple tree to the birdseed scattered beneath the feeder. Then quickly down toward the vegetation along the lakeshore, where he would stop long enough to eat before heading back to do it all again.
He moved so quickly that getting a photograph was nearly impossible. Chipmunks seem to live with a certain amount of nervous energy anyway, but I suppose if I were Pumpkin-sized and regularly sharing my neighborhood with geese, herons, crows, and every other large bird passing through, I might move pretty quickly too.
What struck me most was that Pumpkin may have been here all along. Perhaps the puddle did not suddenly become a better place for a chipmunk. Perhaps there is simply a little more room now.
The geese have not disappeared. They are doing exactly what they are supposed to do. The young ones grew, learned to fly, and their world became larger. And in the space they left behind, another small life became easier to see.
The smaller birds were still there, hopping beneath the feeder and scattering seed as they ate. Pumpkin did not seem bothered by them at all. In fact, they may have been helping. Every seed tossed aside became something worth another trip from the shed, past the maple tree, and back again.
Perhaps it was never the activity around the feeder that kept him away. Perhaps it was simply the size of some of his neighbors.
Now that the young geese can fly and the families are spending more time exploring beyond the puddle, there is a little more room beneath the maple tree.
And Pumpkin appears to have noticed.
I think we sometimes imagine change as something being taken away. Someone leaves. A season ends. A routine shifts. Something that once filled a space is no longer there in quite the same way.
But empty space does not always stay empty. Sometimes it becomes breathing room. Sometimes it becomes an invitation.
Sometimes a little chipmunk named Pumpkin discovers that the maple tree has become a very convenient drive-through.
And sometimes, if we keep watching, we realize that what looked like something leaving was also something else being given room to arrive.
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