An awaited and necessary part for our tractor arrived this week, and my husband had time to mow the Front Point Five, and wait till the weekend to mow the Back Two. (The numbers refer to our modest acreage.)
Our Back Two, abetted by the excellencies of a sunny 69° and no barking dogs, beckoned me to walk its perimeter for a few laps this morning, and I plunged into the shoulder-high Great Basin wild rye field. Quail and meadowlarks, agitated at the surprise invasion of their secure grass shelter, battered the air at near-warp speed. I was sorry to disturb them, but happy to see them. I was thrilled not to see any snakes.
I walked for 35 minutes, with no casualties but a few foxtails lodged in my socks. How could they know they had no hope of germinating in a cotton sock medium?
A field is such an agreeable place in which to situate oneself, and to appreciate the delicacies of Creation.