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{At Long Last, Back on the Farm}


We awoke to a rapture of sweetness in the air. Timothy, Norway spruce, freshly cut grass.


A blur of fur, a rush of dog-love. Mac and Dolly full of kisses, waggy stumps/tails, respectively.


Small World beans, ground, brewed and sweetened. Savored in my grandmother's teacups.


Fits of dianthus erupt like laughter from every available crack in the overgrown garden.


Secret places, wild and green. Quiet places.


Sisters home from San Francisco, Boston, Salvador. A college graduation, with cupcakes.


The barnly organization of tools. The barnly scents of hay, diesel fuel, Murphy Oil Soap.


Sweet Misty. Alone. And very, very old. An old farm horse is a beast full of love, patience.


Certain dogs have discovered horse manure. Certain humans fight back with Cowboy Magic.


Tending to a split-rail fence. And realizing my parents could use a little help around the place.


Forgotten vessels, discovered amid tall grass, buttercups. Tadpoles. A whiff of childhood.


Spots, in various forms, from various places. Like Joshua Tree and Montana. Spots that get along.


Strawberries. Some half-nibbled by mice. All devoured by corgyn if you don't close the garden gate.


Hidden in the hay fields: fledgelings, fawns, fox kits and one very large, very surly skunk.


A celebratory family dinner. All around one table for one precious night. Candles, peonies. Lettuce from the garden. And mosquitoes, but no one will remember that part later when they think back to that wonderful summer evening.

And so it is very good to be home. Almost too good; we are blessed beyond belief.  Such bounty, space, and comfort is almost overwhelming after living in a place where so many people live with so little. A lot of thinking to do, there is. And a lot of weeding. Lucky for me, says my mom, thinking and weeding go hand-in-hand. Today we'll plant tomatoes. Next week we'll bring in the hay. There will be lots of weeding. And good beer. And so this is how we Come Back Home, Make Ourselves Useful, and Chew our Existential Cud. Dheeray, dheeray, as they say in India. Slowly, slowly.