Not in the Game

The days pass so quickly they feel liquid. One minute we’re waking up, the next we’re tucking in and whatever happened in between already feels as if it happened in another life. Maybe even to someone else.

We do not mind. Winter was hard and spring long and for months we pined for exactly what we’re getting now: Days of almost unfathomable beauty, everything green and fertile, the animals fattening on good grass and the crops pushing skyward by what seems like inches per day. Later this week, if the forecast holds, we’ll fill the barn with the first cutting of hay, the first real harvest of the season. It is always a relief to see the barn filled, though the funny thing is that I never know I needed to be relieved of anything until I am. An old-timer once told me he can’t enjoy summer until both his woodshed and his barn are full. I wouldn’t go quite so far as that, but I understand the sentiment.

That is all for today. My head is not in the writing game at the moment and I’m not inclined to force it. There are times for that, to be sure. But with the gleeful immediacy of all that wants doing beyond my office window and my own need to get out there and do it, right now is not one of them.