A Moist Weekend

It is so exciting to be living on the farm in the spring for the first time. I have loved walking the dogs at night and hearing the mating calls of the peepers and bull frogs, the crazy zeep! of a woodcock. During the daylight hours robins and jays squabble over territory; tree swallows swoop around the barn. The grass is green and starting to grow. I even don’t mind this weekend’s gloomy, dripping skies because the land is so full of promise.

The poplars leafed out last week in delicate green. “Popple” is here considered a trash tree, a weed, and I cut down seedlings ruthlessly in the pastures, but I can’t help but be fond of a tree that is the first to sport brave new leaves in the spring and the last one to lose them, golden, in the fall. (Poplars sound more upscale when you call them aspen.) Now the red buds of the maples are unfolding and the first blossoms of the black cherries gleam white in the woods.

Mike stopped by yesterday in his round of errands and  cut back a half dozen trees that fell over the fences in the back field in the big windstorm two weeks ago. I could have cut them all with a handsaw but once you’ve seen the wonders of technology, it’s hard to go back. It took Mike less than ten minutes to saw the trees into manageable chunks.


I’ll stack the logs in the woods and haul the brush to the burn pile. Yesterday I stopped at the fire department and picked up a permit.

But today it is pouring rain and I will focus on indoor chores.

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