Fifth Spring in the Pens

This is our fifth spring in the pens. Four years, five springs. We have adjusted well to this new lifestyle, and now it doesn't even seem strange. Every spring the dogwood blooms, and Bow and I can see it through the grid of the outer pen.

We might long to step outside, but we never do. The grass grows green, and the flowers bloom even if they are just weeds, and chickens cackle and the wind blows.

Will it ever be possible to make new friends, whether chimpanzees or humans? Only time will tell. But for now, Bow is content with the small circle of friends he already has. "Don't let a new guy come," he tells me.

"Because you like Lawrence?"

"Yes."

So everything remains safe and familiar, and nothing changes, except the seasons.