It is a fine spring morning here at the farm. Wind and rain have taken a rare holiday. A few whisps of clouds dot an otherwise clear and deep blue sky. It is just cool enough for a cap and jacket.
The eastern field smells green. Absent for the moment are the artificial smells of diesel and man-made fertilizers, even the mousey scent of poison hemlock. There is only green, and for just a moment a whiff of wild mint so strong it cools the tongue. Then… just green.
On the ground are the early signs of ironweed and thistle mixed with grasses and budding raspberry brambles, the fading yellow of last year’s ground cherries and the fine leaves of early Queen Anne’s lace.
I don’t hear the highway. Instead there are only the calls of the redwing blackbirds staking their claims to space and females. The creek, swollen by rain the day before has settled down to a contented and subtle little laugh.
For the space of a brief walk, there is a glimmer of peace on this little bit of earth, a peace I wish for everyone.