by Wendell Berry

I was born in a drouth year. That summer

my mother waited in the house, enclosed

in the sun and the dry ceaseless wind,

for the men to come back in the evenings,

bringing water from a distant spring.

veins of leaves ran dry, roots shrank.

And all my life I have dreaded the return

of that year, sure that it still is

somewhere, like a dead enemys soul.

Fear of dust in my mouth is always with me,

and I am the faithful husband of the rain,

I love the water of wells and springs

and the taste of roofs in the water of cisterns.

I am a dry man whose thirst is praise

of clouds, and whose mind is something of a cup.

My sweetness is to wake in the night

after days of dry heat, hearing the rain.

20150409_091400After 12 years of farming on this beautiful piece of earth, our pump gave out and we’re having a new variable speed system installed.  The good news is that we hit water at 80 feet and the well is 200 feet deep!  A deeper appreciation of water is definitely gained…

20150321_1502171/2 Swaibian hall 1/4 Tamworth and 1/4 guinea hog

2015 pigs