By John R. Greenwood
Time ticks slowly at the edges of a farm. Curious faces scan my moves, with little worry of my motive. Trust comes quite natural to the bovines guarding the sky. I pause and pay my respects. They nod in unison acknowledging my intent.
Life is different here, more real, less pretend. I quietly reflect on all the farmers and their plight in the present day. Every day another challenge. Every year a widening chasm. I admire the planters and growers, the plowers and rakers. Their strength lies in their stamina. They live in the moment of mother nature and the cards she plays. They replace fear with rolled up sleeves and muddy boots. Peeling paint decorates their world.
Earthy scents from the field, like perfume, stimulate the need to return to the place where time began.