We sweep the farm for frost fragile foods and cover those we hope will withstand the overnight lows. Even the greenhouses can’t shield the tomatoes now, and this evening will put the impending punctuation on the sentence of their season. Final harvests go down in the books, soil temperatures sink, and the north winds draft through threads to draw a multitude of goosebumps from under my skin. Finally a wood fire frees me from my body’s own shivering grip, and I inhale gratitude along with the smell of smoke rising from the embers. 




Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *