Terry planted corn, in another huge wind storm complete with rain. It couldn’t be helped. The ground was just at that ‘perfect place’ — not to wet and not to dry. To wait any longer and the tiny window of opportunity would be gone.
The air was sharp with ozone and wet dirt, extremely cold against my face, when I delivered sacks of seed to him, or to go get him for lunch.
Boomer would be shivering by the time we got back to the house.
It blew and rained off and on all day. Then cleared late in the evening to allow my lovely sour cherries to freeze (?) I sure hope not. I didn’t check the temperature this morning. It was what it was.
But it was cold, so fresh and sharp that it tickled your lungs to breath…by five o’clock I had to start up the woodstove; the heat felt lovely. It’s still going today and it looks like I will be filling the woodbox for at least five or six more days and nights.
Sigh! This spring is very restless; very wet and cold and windy.
Nor is it the disturbed silence of town–the swooshing of tires passing, the slamming of a far away door, a roaming and uneasy always constant movement.
The silence of the house is the dim glow of first light coming through the window…a gradual lighting of the night into day, the feel of slumbering thoughts, of those still sleeping, the pad of Boomer’s feet as he follows me into the kitchen.
The tea kettle’s boiling water signals the day has begun!
From my world to your heart!