I often tell anyone willing to listen that once I reach the top of the steep, mile-long hill behind my home, I consider myself to be in southern Vermont, even though the state line is actually 10 miles in the distance.

When you hop the crest of the hill up there, you’ve entered a pastoral Grandma Moses scene: green rolling meadows and corn stubble; pungent cow manure; sugarbush and mature hardwood forest; white, timber-framed farmhouses with country-red barns; brick one-room schoolhouse and a few surviving neighbors who attended it.

It’s so peaceful to creep along those upland roads, fine-tuning you peripheral vision to catch the wildlife secreted along the edge of a pasture or standing motionless in the budding woods. Soul-soothing, in fact, particularly around sun-up.

On a pleasant early morning a couple of weekends ago, I bought the Sunday newspapers and a large coffee at the mini-mart a couple miles down the road, passed my sleeping home and snuck to the top of the hill to see what I could find. I was most interested in turkeys for obvious reasons, but would have been happy to see a deer or bear, coyote or fox, hey, even a load-mouth red squirrel racing across the road would be OK. And even if there were no wildlife sightings, just the scenery and cool morning air would satisfy.

I swung up through Graves’ Glen, Peckville and East Colrain on this particular a.m. diversion, scanning the landscape for a big tom turkey strutting for an admiring harem, but found none. No deer or bear or other noteworthy creatures, either, by the time I had completed a wide circle back to the crest of the hill where I started.

I dropped the truck into second gear and started to descend the steep hill back home when I spotted a graceful bird that appeared to be a ruffed grouse walking across the road near my personal deer-season parking place. As I drew closer I was able to make a positive identification. Sure enough, a partridge, and behind it another, acting in a peculiar manner. Seemed to have no fear of my approaching white truck. In fact, it seemed to be challenging me for the road.

When I got right on top of the little game bird, I knew why he was paying little attention to the imminent danger confronting him in the middle of the country road. Other, more important, matters on his mind. The first bird that had crossed the road into the woodlot was his springtime mate, and he was in full strut, like a miniature tom turkey — tail fanned, breast and neck feathers fluffed. A beautiful sight, and rare indeed.

The lovesick feathered creature stopped a couple of times to perform his courting ritual before scooting into the woods after his mate.

With the elegant springtime lovers in my rear-view and my home approaching at the base of the hill, it had been a worthwhile trip. Short and sweet as sugar-maple blood.