This morning I walked a mile in two feet of snow, uphill both ways, to dig my car out of my neighbor's driveway so I could fulfill my obligations at school and in rehearsals. I won't speak about the challenges that 20 inches of snow (atop 1/2" of solid ice and snice beneath) overnight pose to man and beast. Suffice it to say, we've all overcome. Before the ice fell I noticed buds bursting through the branches of the maple trees. From afar the pastures appeared greener than they were a week ago. The snow is going to melt this week, leaving us to wallow in an equal amount of mud. If I have any lambs on the ground, they're underneath the snow. Two farmers down the road have had calves and kids respectively in the past week; all are doing well. The cows' bellies are dragging in the snow. Tom remembers a storm like this fifteen years ago, when the assaulting snow froze so hard that 1500 lb. cows could walk on it without breaking through. This storm has been kinder. The pond isn't frozen, the ducks are swimming, and it's harder for coyotes and foxes to cross and pace around the chicken coop. Spring belongs to the lambs and ducks, the songbirds, the animals who cannot plow their highway through the snow. Winter belongs to creatures who hibernate and spin yarn, neighbors who take care of one another, and primitive sheep-beasts whose windward faces take on champrons of snowflakes as individual as they are. Here, in the lion of March, all these collide. Like the sheep, I'm looking forward, prepared to heed the words of Kentucky author Wendell Barry:
"Near winter's end, your flock
Will bear their lambs, and you
Must be alert, out late
And early at the barn,
To guard against the grief
You cannot help but feel
When any young thing made
For life falters at birth
And dies. Save the best hay
To feed the suckling ewes,
Shelter them in the barn
Until the grass is strong,
Then turn them out to graze
The green hillsides, good pasture
With shade and water close.
Then watch for dogs, whose sport
Will be to kill your sheep
And ruin all your work.
Or old Coyote may
Become your supper guest,
Unasked and without thanks;
He'll just excerpt a lamb
And dine before you know it.
But don't, because of that,
Make war against the world
And its wild appetites.
A guard dog or a jenny
Would be the proper answer;
Or use electric fence.
For you must learn to live
With neighbors never chosen
As with the ones you choose.
Coyote's song at midnight
Says something for the world
The world wants said. And when
You know your flock is safe
You'll like to wake and hear
That wild voice sing itself
Free in the dark, at home."
If Coyote's song says something the world wants said, this late winter storm must speak for nature. It screams that we must adapt, that we must accept our fragility and find strength in it, that we must create our own light and warmth in the world and take care of one another always. We shouldn't complain - snow now means less bugs later and no drought in the summer. Maybe a good harvest, four quality cuttings off the hay fields. In two months I'll be barefoot in shorts, cuddling lambs with tight curly coats and springs in their legs.
"Near winter's end, your flock
Will bear their lambs, and you
Must be alert, out late
And early at the barn,
To guard against the grief
You cannot help but feel
When any young thing made
For life falters at birth
And dies. Save the best hay
To feed the suckling ewes,
Shelter them in the barn
Until the grass is strong,
Then turn them out to graze
The green hillsides, good pasture
With shade and water close.
Then watch for dogs, whose sport
Will be to kill your sheep
And ruin all your work.
Or old Coyote may
Become your supper guest,
Unasked and without thanks;
He'll just excerpt a lamb
And dine before you know it.
But don't, because of that,
Make war against the world
And its wild appetites.
A guard dog or a jenny
Would be the proper answer;
Or use electric fence.
For you must learn to live
With neighbors never chosen
As with the ones you choose.
Coyote's song at midnight
Says something for the world
The world wants said. And when
You know your flock is safe
You'll like to wake and hear
That wild voice sing itself
Free in the dark, at home."
If Coyote's song says something the world wants said, this late winter storm must speak for nature. It screams that we must adapt, that we must accept our fragility and find strength in it, that we must create our own light and warmth in the world and take care of one another always. We shouldn't complain - snow now means less bugs later and no drought in the summer. Maybe a good harvest, four quality cuttings off the hay fields. In two months I'll be barefoot in shorts, cuddling lambs with tight curly coats and springs in their legs.
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