The farm found its own rhythm. The first year I tried to force a rhythm and take note of the changes of each month. In January the snow piled up, in February we ran low on wood, in March we got swallowed by mud. April’s weather was capricious and May brought forth a riot of life. But somewhere in the deliberate marking, the days blurred together, the months got away from me, and the seasons moved on.
It has been three years since we first laid eyes on this farm. As I stood out in the pasture yesterday, pulling the last of the temporary fencing and doing one final check before we moved the animals up the hill for the fall, I realized that the rhythm of the seasons found us. The summer heat gave way to golden rod, which ushered in the movement of our animals. The days are getting shorter and the tasks get more urgent as we squirrel away wood and forage for the winter. The cold and snow will be here before we are ready and we will spend the days before the first storm buttoning up the barn and racing against an increasingly long to-do list. And then Spring will come when the Eastern Pheobe’s usher in the return of mud.
The seasons keep marching and we get swept up in them. We move along not because the calendar says so, but because our farm quietly prompts us with blooming golden rod, quiet evenings, and colder days.