Sunday, August 31, 2003

I had not intended to go two weeks between updates, but the end of summer has come quickly. Oh, the days are still hot enough, but the signs are there. The tadpoles in the seep from the pasture spring are gone, replaced by the voices of frogs in the tall grass. Birds fly in crazy connect-the-dot clusters before dropping into the big sycamore, pausing as they congregate for the flight south. I duck under spider silk as I walk into the barn, looking for egg sacks, and any last messages written into webs. (Bambi never made me sentimental about deer, but Charlotte's Web has stayed my hand from many a spider. Foolish, I know . . .) I can't understand how I ever thought that rural life moved slowly. There are days I feel like I am in one of those time lapse nature films, and the projectionist keeps pushing the speed control. We are in that last rush of nature to get business done before winter, and every day looks different in some great or subtle way. Each day, this small piece of ground I pretend to know shows me new possibilities, many good, some bad, almost all unexpected. It brings to mind the truth of what poet-farmer Wendell Berry says in "Travelling at Home":

Even in a country you know by heart
it's hard to go the same way twice.

Sunday, August 17, 2003

Sunday afternoon, the air so humid that birds seem to swim. Clouds threatening, no rain yet. . .

Tuesday, August 12, 2003

Mist, 8-12-03

And the Mountain vanishes! For our next trick . . .

Saturday, August 09, 2003

Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh, better known to readers of his books on prayer as Anthony Bloom, died on August 4th. His little book, Beginning to Pray, has been my constant companion for the last quarter century. I will reread parts of it tonight in honor of this good and wise man. Memory Eternal.

Friday, August 01, 2003

This Sunday marks the start of the Warren County Fair. The boys are washing sheep, getting them cleaned up for the 4-H show ring. I will have a booth in the "Wonder Building" kicking off my campaign for Commonwealth's Attorney. (That's chief local prosecutor, or "D.A." for you non-Virginians.) Stop by the show barn and greet the kids, then walk across the way and pick up a bumpersticker, get your hand shook and your baby kissed.
Hot August afternoon, thunderheads building, sunset coming