We’ve had enough rain the past few mornings to ease the worse of the dryness, which I’d begun to experience in a bodily way, as if the soil’s thirst were my own. But despite the rain, it remains dry, the stream is low, the pond is low, the pasture grass slow to recover. It has been hot, too, which I’ve found to be only as unpleasant as I believe it to be. Yesterday I ran in the thick of the heat and humidity, like pushing through a wall, my shirt drenched before I’d gone a mile, pleased with myself for the effort of it, though later I couldn’t seem to drink enough water to sate myself, and was glad I’d not pushed too hard.
Later, I drove one of my usual routes on my way to one of my usual destinations, passing one of my now-usual sights: two women, one middle-aged, one older (mother and daughter?) sitting in one of those self-contained swinging love seats in the lawn of a mobile home at the highway’s edge, enjoying the company of a large goat. I’ve passed this scene three times this summer, once with three women rather than two, but always the big goat, an astonishing presence, a real double-taker, all floppy ear and spindly leg, tall as a small pony. A person could ride a goat like that, I figure, a notion that elevates my delight even further.
Still later, on the cusp of dark – so early now – I dive into the blessed wet chill of the pond, rinse away the dirt of the day, let it mingle with the clean spring water bubbling from some crevice deep below. I don’t want summer to end. But it will, and soon, and I guess that’s just how it’ll be.
Walking through the orchard to feed the pigs, I stop under an apple-heavy tree to gather drops. Even as I fill the bucket, I hear the thump of more apples hitting the ground, like a clock ticking down the minutes until winter. The pigs are happy for the apples, they eat they voraciously, one bite and an apple is gone. I will bring them more this afternoon.
Ben Hewitt 