The light, golden, rays slanting, fields of fading asparagus, gilded dark leaves of the strawberries. Sun sinking gracefully with a low curtsey into the dark blue mountains ringing the far fields, while birds fly overhead, and the dogs lay at our feet panting.
We’re sending postcards from the farm, “wish you were here, glad that we get to see this.”
The very air still with intent.
Trees filtering fading sunlight, dust clouds kicked up by the farm equipment tinting the sky with a fine golden dust. Long rows of newly minted green hay drying in the quickly leaving light.
Farmers with dust masks, on red tractors, intent on picking up as much as they can before the sun fully sets and night claims back it’s territory. One machine turns, the other churns, one spits out square bales, some round, each one busily working. Time is precious, there are unending chores to be done after the field is raked clean.
We are the tourists, camera in hand, car slid over to the side of the road, watching, recording.
Wildflowers line the gravel road like spectators, nudging each other for the best view. The sky darkens suddenly as the sun hides behind a cloud, and the tractors slow to a crawl.
Off in the distance a dog barks, looking for company.
Lights come on one by one in the shadowy farm house.
The night has started to write it’s tale, postcards from the day are on their way.
Jen @ The Light Laughed