My weathervale has shifted. I can tell by the sour taste of discontent that there is a syncing problem. I got a new phone two weeks ago, and it was way too big a change, so it was returned last week, still unsatisfactorily, and that is when I realized what I wanted was to go back.
It is not due to the change in weather, but I long to retreat into a book and stay there for about a week. Or lay in a bath with the amniotic fluid of hot water soothing me from whatever is scary and hard. Living here on the land is a chance to witness how the land gives back and how the farmer makes that happen. I marvel at it.
It is an honest exchange. Alfalfa crops surround the house, a chlorophyll-colored small weedy-looking plant that is underestimated by passer-bys who think the land is fallow. Alfalfa is harvested every couple of weeks like grass and we have watched at least harvests in the short time we have been here.
We go to bed to the hum and rumble of the tractors, and sometimes in the twilight see the profile of the lone farmer as he works the land. By morning, rows are piled with cuttings, or already baled and ready to go. Money air, my Grandfather called it, and he was right.
Alfalfa is nothing as grand as hay or corn, with its tall and graceful stalks that glitter and catch the sun. No songs are written about it. Nobody anticipates it like pumpkins or watermelons, except for the guy in the cab. Farming alfalfa yields a respectable income for this useful, nutrient-rich crop.
The world doesn't change much in AgriWorld. It mostly involves updated equipment and improved soil nutrient combinations to draw more harvest from the land, that sort of thing. It is a fundamental life where earth and man understands one another and above all respect for Mother Earth. Let me lay here quietly and contemplate that.
No comments:
Post a Comment