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There was nothing like Dad's Farm early in the morning when I was alone and had to do the irrigating by myself. When he was there it was sheer hell, but when he wasn't and it was morning it was sheer beauty and ecstasy.
There was nothing like Dad's Farm early in the morning when I was alone and had to do the irrigating by myself. When he was there it was sheer hell, but when he wasn't and it was morning it was sheer beauty and ecstasy.
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There was nothing like Dad's Farm early in the morning when I was alone and had to do the irrigating by myself. When he was there it was sheer hell, but when he wasn't and it was morning it was sheer beauty and ecstasy.
Авторское право:
Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
Доступные форматы
Скачайте в формате DOC, PDF, TXT или читайте онлайн в Scribd
fills my nostrils as I step sleepily into the mud, leaving jagged tread of my black irrigation boots smooshing the cool wet mud with my hundred-pound weight plus ten
Water trickles between the reddish-brown clumps of dirt
that partially obstruct each straight-laced furrow, skirting pebbles and clods, finding its most natural course down the imperfectly straight rows soaking the dry, sandy loam soil with its life-giving nutrients.
Small green barley shoots break through soil.
While beneath, roots penetrate the porous earth. Shoots reach their delicate green heads upward to greet warmth of dawn’s rising sun.
My shovel clears a clump of salt grass and tumbleweed
that blocks the ditch. The obstruction causes flow to foam slightly to spread out unnaturally as if it has tentacles that seek to gobble up parched earth..
The mountain water,
like an unruly teenager, has rebelled; left its course, cut deep into soil by the steel teeth of man’s plow, gingerly, I bring flow back into check and send it scurrying down the ditch.
Meadow lark warbles its greeting
on far-off fence, filling the air with melodious song. A grayish-brown squirrel peaks from behind sagebrush momentarily, then scurries off into underbrush.
Miles away, mist rises from riverbed
and drifts lazily across checkerboard fields below the rise of earth that is Dad’s farm. Farm ascends steeply toward rock-strewn western hills.
Across the valley, on faraway blue-green mountains,
first rays of sun reach bright, cheery tendrils through dips and hollows and over peaks. I am filled with a sense of peace and purpose.
In the heat of midday, and Dad’s temper,
there will be no greater hell. But here, all alone with my emotions, I am in heaven, and there can be no hell.
In all the world, there is no place
So full of beauty, charm and grace than is Dad’s farm in his absence.
There is no age so sweet,
nor memory so dear as that moment etched on the fabric of my mind like a furrow cut deep into dry earth of my sixteenth year.
The joy of life radiates within,
untarnished by worries and cares, amidst the eye of the storm that is my tumultuous life.
This memory resonates deep within me,
leaving its imprint on my psyche like a rubber boot in wet mud of Dad’s fifty-acre farm.