I’m sitting here in the office in front of the computer. I have a local microbrew bubbling in a mason jar on the desk within arm’s reach.
The south facing window is open and I can hear the red tail hawks calling to each other across the treetops. The call of the hawks is the sound of summer. (I thought I had read somewhere that something like more than 75% of red tails don’t make it to adulthood. I’m not sure about that statistic. We have a nesting pair here in our woods who (or is it “which”?) raise a clutch every summer. Most years, we have various ages of red tails swooping in and about our pastures scooping voles and other small rodents. We actually have red tails all over this valley. Maybe we are just the lucky ones.)
The pigs are settling down for the night and I can hear them snuffling and snorting from their palace. The chickens have long since gone to bed. The hens are early-to-bedders-early-to-risers.
The outside chores are completed, dishes done, kitchen cleaned and I’m sitting here still damp from a shower. Though it’s almost 11 pm, there is still light in the sky.
It’s the summer solstice. That means that the pendulum will begin to swing north again and the days will start to shorten, though it feels like summer has really just started here in NW Montana.
All the farm kids, save one, are settling down for sleep. And the head farmer is waiting for me in our own bed. It feels like if I can make note of these fleeting summer moments, maybe they won’t be so ephemeral.
Lately I feel like a balloon that’s been let loose on the night breeze. I don’t know which way I’m drifting. I have no control over the breeze. No control over where I’m being pushed. So I just close my eyes and dwell in the moment. Dwell in the light, warmish current as I’m nudged this way and that. It’s not scary or traumatic. The breeze is life. And I am carried slowly along. Bouncing gently.
Hmmmm. Very melancholy. I must be tired.