Last evening, sitting on the deck, I heard the bellowing of a cow down below. She was hidden from my sight by the dam of the pond. Some of her companions browsed in the grass, visible from where I sat. After a while, the bellowing stopped; Morse's farm was richer by one calf.
This evening - the same scene. The herd is browsing in a section of the pasture down towards the wood line, opened by Jason just today. I miss the ringing of the bells cows wear in Switzerland. There is nothing more expressive of peace than the soft clanging of the bells around a grazing herd's necks in the evening. The bellowing has stopped. Another calf is born.
The sky is covered with a grey haze, slowly turning pink in the setting sun. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves of the linden tree next to me. And sporadically the croakers holler up from the pond. Else, all is quiet. The low, constant roar I hear is but the rushing of my own blood.
There are trees that show unmistakable signs of fall in the woods. Some tree tops are brown. It cannot be the result of drought, as we claim in other years. this summer we had was so wet as to worry the farmers. Steve Morse must have lost tons of hay and much of what was gathered was of low quality because the seeds remained on the stalk too long before cutting was possible. On the side of the road leading down to the school there is a young maple fully dressed in the beauty of fall colors: red, yellow, some green leaves remain. The tree next to it, a mature, tall maple, it still fully green. Prosaic Chip's answer to my remark is a laconic 'bugs'. I look at him. He repeats 'bugs'. If he is right, it seems to me, the woods around here will not survive many years. This is just the end of August. Yet another four weeks before the end of summer.
But the moment, today, tonight, are full of miracles.
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