Dear Farm Journal,

This morning I awake to a rain battered farm with visions of midnight lightning flashing in my memory. The high reaching hollyhocks are now low and parallel to the ground. Balio is wet and muddy, and I can tell his body is starting to catch up to his mammoth head because he doesn’t look quite as much like a cartoon when he’s drenched. The car windows, as well as the moon roof were open, so there is about a quarter inch of water in one corner of the driver’s side. The grass is spongy and squishy as I walk around the farmstead, but the plants look happy, like they were given the much needed drink they were thirsting for. A casual composure hangs in the air, founded on the recognition that the gardens are watered, the boxes are packed, our new plantings are taking off, weeds are slowing down, and the dog days of summer are over. As the day goes on, the slow warmth of the sun dries up some of the excess rain water and there is a bull’s eye of a breeze in the air. My only anxiety arises when Rufus is working on the self unloading wagon with some pretty precariously placed “jacks”. It’s one of those situations that makes you cringe a little, and then you have to walk away because you just can’t watch.


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