Every season has it’s own set of rules…it’s own ‘way’ of being and doing. I’m sure this is true, not just on a farm, but for everyone.
Yesterday we hand-worked (or back worked) on the forever and ever amount, of ditches that can NOT be cleaned by the blade or the ditcher.
Terry worked in the lemon colored sunshine, using the shovel to clear last year’s mud and this February’s cow patties.
While I go first with the pitchfork…lifting and stacking the myriad assortment of weed collected in the ditches over the winter.
The pungent odor of dried stems, the faint whiff of dust…all adds to the slide of the pitchfork under the debris, the fling of trash to the other side; making a little pile to dispose of later.
The fresh gusts of spring-time wind give me a tiny burst of celebration, since the breeze helps move the dried out weeds off my pitchfork helping me move faster.
In the evening I walk Romeo back to his barn–he and I are great friends. Min-Min Lou and Boomer going with us.
Spring…the word is work! Small and sturdy. A passage of the season of winter, where the word is wait. Summer will be the word Growing, and fall Harvest.
The circle of life– Inevitable. Eternal.
Your friend on a western Colorado farm,