Driving up the mountain road yesterday, I noted the bareness of the trees, the long grey sweep of the mountainside, and I felt the coolness of the air seeping through the truck window, open just a touch. The stream is running high and fast again, fed by a much-needed soaking rain. And more to come. It feels like fall, now, and I do not mind, though I’m not looking forward to winter in my usual manner. I can’t say why.
This morning, milking in the early sun, crouched at Pip’s side in the barely-frosted pasture grass, I watched one of the pigs scratch herself against the trunk of an apple tree, wriggling her body to maximize coverage. I could see how good it felt, could almost feel it myself, that rough bark scraping away the itch, the solidness of the tree against the softness of the flesh. And I was glad for that fleeting moment of escape, in which no season was coming or going, no rain was needed or not, nothing to mourn nor to rejoice. No accounting to be made.
Only the pig. That tree. The sound of milk filling the bucket.