On a hot day, probably in October, based on the view of the land, the trees, the gardens, and the man in the field putting up an electric fence, a satellite crossed the skies overhead and took a picture of our farm with a never-sleeping eye above the planet. It is this one shot from last year that is of interest today.

This farmer outstanding in his field.

Zoom in on this link and you can clearly see three hogs in a paddock to the right of the hoop house, through whose roof you can even see turnips and cabbages growing in thick rows. On either side, the outdoor gardens are spent for the season and covered in mulch. The beehives line up alongside the drive. The house, hay barns, equipment shed, sawmill yard, well house, workshop — all are clearly visible and tidy enough in design and layout.

The farmers are at home. Both my truck and Cindy’s car are in the drive next to the house. In the front yard is an old glider and behind the house two Adirondack chairs. A fire pit sits next to a stone stairway that leads to nowhere but an herb garden on top of the curved stone wall.

The satellite image reveals orchards, vines, and farm projects in various stages of completion. The fields above and below the house have all been cut, the hay removed and stored. The tire tracks from the tractor mark the countless trips up and down the hill pasture that were required to cut, rake, bale, move, and stack the hay to feed and bed the livestock for the winter.

Zoom in tight and in that same upper field you’ll see the old farm truck, parked with the driver’s side door open. Just above the truck and to the left, I stand. Off to my right is the start of a line of white plastic step-in posts, the temporary electric fence I’m erecting as a winter paddock for the sheep.

In that field on that day, unknown to me but always present, was the watchful eye of government and commerce, counting and calculating its wealth and resources. I am just the man sweating on a hillside trying to get one more task done before evening. One insignificant speck of data vacuumed up in their planetary haul of bytes, being accounted for, assessed, stamped, and filed away for future use.

That one is allowed to view one’s data file must surely be counted as a privilege.