Jill e-mailed me just yesterday:
the weather’s dry; so, early starts
for Marsh to irrigate—
an icy play down by the creek
in freezing cold and wet and dark
to fetch the old machine.
The oats are growing well, though, Jake:
we baled six acres Friday last—
a bright and sunny day.
This morning: fog, as thick as thieves.
The cats lie stricken on the carpet
by the glass door, east-
ward clustered, peering: where’s the day?
I’m waiting, too, with washing; tasked
to dart out at first ray.
Beyond, the tractor lectures me—
a spectral putter; there goes Marsh:
he starts up, disappears.
News from the Farm
1 November 2015