A Quiet Trip to the Farm
Friday evening, barn and corn crib.
Friday evening, looking south.
A tractor load from ash trees in west field, bound for the brush pile.
March 18-25, 2022
I took at 6-day, tech-free break in March, finding some space and solace in the rhythms of the countryside. I was housesitting for my sister Carol, taking care of a couple of cats, and working on the historic property.
It was hard work, non-scheduled, completely ordinary, astoundingly quiet, frustrating at times, soaringly blissful. The week was accompanied by the gentle crescendo sound of the spring dawn chorus, the ticking of a 70-year-old tractor engine, the wind in the trees, the angry flap of the disturbed buzzard’s enormous wings as they parkour out of the corn crib. The mockingbird and I discussed our challenges, the oil got under my fingernails, and the window creaked in the usual spot. I got some things done. Some things didn’t go according to plan. Invisible hands held me.
Saturday: brush pile above the lake.
