Wild geese in the fields
Fox at the edge of the pasture at night
Coyotes laughing in the dark
The farm is surrounded by wildness.
Pigeons take flight from the barn roof, swooping downward in one big mass, then flying up again, cresting like a wave that rolls and breaks across the sky.
Seeds left on the ground from last year’s sunflowers took root months ago and now yellow heads on thick stems stand tall in the garden.
Wildflowers bloom along lane ways and against buildings; bull thistle engulfs the south side of the sugarhouse.
The farm intertwines with wildness.
Edge walks barefoot all around the farm, grass, dirt and manure rubbing into his skin. We’ve taken to bathing in the pond rather than walking up to the farmhouse for a shower. Edge washes off while six-inch long catfish nibble at his toes; I dance in the water, dunking my head fast and picking up my feet to keep the catfish away.
Inside the yurt spiders weave webs to catch any other insect that may find its way in, the dogs curl up on the bed, and simmering soup stock warms our small space. As the weather cools, dew forms a glittering screen on the glass dome, and we sip hot mugs of homemade chai on crisp mornings.
From my home I hear cows and crows, dogs barking and coyotes howling, chickens clucking and yellow-throats calling witchity-witchity-witchity! There is no full separation between cultivation and wildness here, and I do not strive to make one.
Mud and dirt, manure and compost, forest and field, people and animals, water and air. These layers of our lives are stitched together with grass and flower stems. A continuous woven mosaic.