It is green again.
It’s not a miracle. Or maybe it’s a tiny one. It’s not a surprise. And yet it’s strange even while familiar. I am in love with spring this year, even with its unexpected, early heat.
The animals lounge in sunny patches, soaking up the sunshine. The chickens burst out of the chicken house in the mornings, eager to greet the days. They hid from winter, burrowed in their hen house, feathers fluffed to blanket them from the cold.
The sun streams in on my back in the milking pen, low enough in the sky in the mornings to sneak in under the shelter’s roof. The steady ping-ping of Beulah Petunia’s warm milk hits the bucket, and sometimes slides over my fingers. I hear the sheep baa-ing from the next pasture. I hear the faraway sound of roosters up the hill. I walk across the creek carrying my bucket of milk, wildflowers nodding along the banks.
I go home, take care of milk, skim cream, think about dinner, write, take pictures, work. The sound of chickens outside is a constant accompaniment—hens clucking, roosters crowing. I hear the birds chirp through open windows. Green is everywhere I look.
I have a spare moment. My house needs cleaned.
I take a walk in the green instead.
I can clean my house in wintertime, you know.
Today, it is green.