I milked this morning in a tee shirt, the wind gusting, the high clouds dense and layered and strangely still. Painting-like. I think today will bring the last swim in the pond; I went in two days ago and it was almost colder than I could bear, though the truth is I bet I could bear it a lot colder. I just don’t want to.
The wind has coaxed the leaves from the trees; what foliage remains has mostly gone dull. It’ll drop soon, too. Yesterday we passed through Stowe, where the sidewalks bustled with tourists. A little late to the party, but they looked happy enough.
Later in the day, nearer to home, solo now, I passed a dairy farm on a little-traveled backroad, slowing to watch a young family drive the cows to evening milking. Jersey’s, mostly, tawny and narrow-ribbed. The family rode an open-cab tractor, the father driving, the mother and infant child sitting on the footstep, her feet just shy of the pasture grass, light green and low from overgrazing. Both parents obese. I say this not to demean, but merely as a point of fact. The baby loose in her thick arms. I could see they do this every day.
Back home, I mixed milk and grain for the big pig, hiked it to the top of the knoll where she resides, packed boot path yellowed by blown-down leaves, the pig moving fast to her bowl as I approached. She knows the routine. Well. I guess we both do.
Music: Whiskey Myers with an acoustic take on one of their new ones. Enjoy.