Dear Farm Journal,
The sun reclines into the periwinkle sky. Shoulder brawn and core sinews sigh with fatigue beneath bronzed skin. Rufus, Sandi, and I have tackled an ambitious to-do list and reward ourselves with one of the more diverting tasks on the list (which we’ve saved for last); planting ramps in the woods. We’ve held back a portion of the incipient pearls (from my dad’s land) and hope they’ll take root in our forest floor. We recede into the wooded acreage, tucking into the patches of shade, and scanning the hillside for morels. This wildwood sprawls in whimsical abandon beyond the measured angles of the farmstead planning, and her pastoral heart ministers to my soul.

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