The first thing she showed me was an aerial photo of her land. It's fitting, as she later told me she counts her relationship with the land and the animals on the land among her most intimate relationships, along with her family. I followed her as she hayed the horses, milked the two cows (whose milk she shares with their calves), fed the meat chickens (and gave the leftover chicken carcass from an overnight hawk attack to her dog) and rotated the cows' pasture.
Her fields aren't as fertile as she would like. She thinks she'll need to bring in more manure. This job of recovering the land needs more manure than it can sustain.
She spoke of this farm as her soul's work. She said she's figured out what orchestra she needs to play in, even what part of the orchestra, she thinks, but she's still figuring out what her song is, what notes are hers to contribute.
I lost track of time listening to her and watching, and rushed out. But as I drank of a glass of water for the road, I overheard her nine-year-old telling his friend, "Do you know what happens when a chicken dies? The other chickens eat its intestines because they think they're worms."
(Yep. He's right on. I saw it with my own eyes this very morning.)
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