The Farm

Climbing the ladder built into the old barn wall, I make my way up to the quiet of the haymow. Guided by the rays of sunlight streaming through the cracks in the weathered wood walls, I am just able to make my way to my nest, the place where a few bales have broken loose from their twine binding and have scattered to make a cozy spot to sit and listen and dream.

Across the way, I hear a high mewing sound, and I smile realizing that the mama cat who has been looking heavier than usual has given birth to her kittens and has chosen the perfect place to keep them safely nestled from the hawks flying overhead and the hooves of the cattle moving restlessly below and the collie, whining at the bottom of the ladder, awaiting my return.

I breathe in deeply as the hay, freshly cut, baled, and sent to the loft fills my lungs with the odor of spring. It’s a pure, fresh, clean bouquet that mixes with the scent of the rain beginning to hit the old tin roof, sounding like a parade of soldiers scurrying overhead, enhancing the volume tenfold.

I hear the muffled, hollow ringing of the dinner bell, take in one last, deep breath, and make my way back to the ladder that will lead me to the collie, whining more loudly now, knowing that the sound of the bell will bring me back to him. I carefully make my way down the wall, ruffle the head and chest of my waiting companion, and we run off to my grandparents’ small, warm farmhouse kitchen to pray, enjoy a hearty meal, and share our adventures of the day.