The tides of your breath, the anthill shimmering with motion, the chicken scratching her language into the soil, the fly, drunk on light, thrumming and bumping against the glass— you opened the box of quiet inside. You found these things.
The secret lies in brushing hair, a hundred and one strokes, down the cascade, long as a mare’s tail. It is carried in the singing learned from children, that floats like so many sparrows through the open window of the … Continue reading
Years ago I fell into a certain rapture with old farm machinery rusting in the brittle grass, the brown sweep of a plow distracted by timothy and bedstraw, a horse-drawn harrow like a hand cupping the ground, their wooden parts … Continue reading
Listen. To the language of lichen on stone, the twist of a birch branch, leaves cart-wheeling across the ground, the dry rattle of spent flowers. The flame of sumac has a sound. You can hear the dark line of tide … Continue reading
Last fall Tide Mill Creamery welcomed a herd of sixty Nubian goats to the farm. They are a gift and a delight (not without their own set of challenges of course). Our land here on the outskirts of the farm, … Continue reading