The low winter sun is a trickster, part coyote. Freed from the confinements of summer’s leafy arbor, it shape-shifts across the horizon, always blinding the beholder no matter which direction he peers. Its glaring illumination finds me most days waving my hands in semaphore ballet simply to see where on the farm I am heading. Still, this morning I manage to glimpse a flicker of bright crimson in the perfect white light by angling my hands and spreading my fingers in deflection. It is a cardinal perched shoulder height in the hornbeam, plumped to substantial girth on this frozen January morning. I manage to outwit the sun and place him behind me, then take a few moments to stare at the red-robed fellow before me.

Folklore says seeing a cardinal is meant to remind us of those departed. If so, there is a lot of reminding going on on the farm. Pairs frequently nest in the muscadine vines, others favor the sweet gums, and at least one couple usually makes a home in the weigela at the southern edge of the yard next to the rusty wrought iron gate. This male appears to be by himself, which is not unusual, although it may be that his vivid plumage creates an impression of a bachelor life, while his mate, with her discreet browns, grays, and hints of red, remains present but hidden in plain sight. Then again, the pair won’t begin nesting until March, so he may simply be scouting, showing off, or spending some much-needed me time after the holidays. In any case, he finally flutters off and perches briefly on the livestock trailer parked to the north side of the house, before lighting in the top of the nearest winged elm. I cup my hands round my eyes so I can track his flight. Again, how did the sun shift directions?

My diversion ended, I approach the trailer and peer inside. It is full of fouled hay—first from accommodating twenty-two meat birds in the final days leading to their butchering, then from housing our still-unpregnant red wattle sow, Ginger, who spent her last night in the space—and it awaits cleaning.

Yesterday evening, gentle and trusting to the end, she followed me from her paddock into the trailer without question or falter. This morning, just after sunup, I walked her easily out of the trailer and into the pen at the slaughterhouse. I left her quietly waiting for the butcher to make his dramatic stop. Within minutes, I was sitting with a woman in the small cramped office discussing in practical terms how we wanted the carcass cut and packaged. It is a cruel world. But it can be kind, and sometimes both together. Ginger led a very good life—a sheltered stall with hay to burrow in; a large gravel lot and access to a grassy paddock; fresh produce, dairy, and mixed grains fed twice a day; plenty of scratches. She was never treated with anything but care and respect. She was given many more chances to succeed on our farm than those animals caught in the maw of the industrial farm system.

It is an old theme for us: that all of our actions have consequences, that even the most benign of actions, from hoeing the garden to shopping at the grocery, result in death. It is just that our modern world offers an all-too-convenient buffer, a spectator’s distance, that provides a camouflage, justifiable deniability for consequences. That is a position unavoidable in this farming life we lead: unwinding modernity one meal at a time.

After making a note in my pocket journal about cleaning the trailer, I head to the barn and finish my morning chores. Before arriving, my eye is once again caught by the familiar color. A quick fluttering of my own hands shields the light and reveals the cardinal, now flitting from branch to twig to branch in the nearby golden raintree, gentle and trusting in my presence.

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