We joke that August is “nervous breakdown month” on the farm, and maybe we shouldn’t joke about it, but I can feel it breathing it’s hot breath right around the corner. Rufus and I start to bow beneath the burden of seasonal wear and tear. I find myself shooting sharp looks and entangling my mouth in argumentative conversations. I feel like I’ve been running since Christmas and haven’t broken stride. Today I purposely scheduled “nothing”. I watched the chickens peck in the yard. I hid between the overgrown asparagus rows. I read an entire novel. I transported from farm to fiction, for my own sanity.