Life on a family farm
in the wilds of
Upstate New York
Monday, August 25, 2014
Drape the drooping grass, durable diligence waiting on destiny. Dew displays the dastardly details; by noon they are invisible. Did our grandmothers learn lace from spiders?
Dragonflies tremble and shiver off the wet, darkened by the dampness of the day. All is softened by twisting fog. It swirls knee-deep over old red grass, knotting and loosening in the eddying air. Birds are visible only by voice. A blur of racing yellow darts into the big oak tree. No sound, no name, no way, no how Absence makes the walk grow harder. When there were cows out here, more cows than two, plus a heifer and a calf, the grass was short, the hummocks and divots visible.
Now they are sand traps and water hazards, or mud traps and tangle hazards if you will, covered in a pelt of clinging green. You cannot walk and look up at the same time, atall, atall. The light is mysterious this time of year. Colors glow within. Shadows burn three-dimensional, tangible; shadow suddenly a color of its own.
Thank you cows, for lingering in the woods this morning. My knees and bad foot will ache later from walking up to get you, but memories of morning will surely light the day.