The walk-through gate into the inner corral is as good a spot as any for a morning contemplation. I lean against it, coffee cup in hand. The previous night’s waxing crescent is safely abed below the western horizon. Our flock of pregnant ewes and unbred yearlings lay clustered before me, like small snow-covered hillocks dimly visible against the dark grass. A smell of lanolin and grassy poop rises from their warmth in the morning darkness. It is 5:30.
The stars hide their light behind low scalloped clouds. To the north, above the river, an illumination marks the location of the county seat, Kingston. Otherwise, except for a few security lights dotting the valley, our presence on this earth seems almost benign at this moment.
A few of the ewes begin to rise, defecating and urinating before taking their first morning step. Theirs is a routine that makes fertilizing the land remarkably easy for the organized farmer: Confine the flock at night in a small area of the field. Once the sheep have arisen and eliminated in the morning, let them out. Move the enclosure the next night. As I watch another sheep rise and relieve herself, I pledge to harness some of the collective energy.
On the wooden fence railing of the corral roost six Bourbon Red tom turkeys, all destined for Christmas tables. For now, they have the run of the farm, and they exist harmoniously with the chickens, ducks, sheep, dogs, and cats. They do not, however, venture to explore the pig paddocks. Perhaps the hungry eyes of our fellow omnivores put the turkeys off from strolling too close. If so, then why do they not resist my occasional picking up and squeezing of their fleshy parts? Do they sense not my predatory intent?
I listen, holding my breath, as one of the hogs in the nearby paddock shifts its bulk against the back of the shed. Does this portend a structural deficiency that will result at any moment in a 250-pound escapee. I exhale: the building still stands and the hog rolls over, resuming its slumber. Too soon the metal slapping of the automatic feeder lids will begin, and it will continue all day. Although the hogs have two acres of wilds to explore, these days, in the twilight of their lives, they prefer to spend most of their time at the dinner table. Indeed, our pigs have an obesity problem, but it’s a problem we both embrace and encourage.
Beyond the corral to the north, just past the long rows of collards and peppers, the hoop-house is a ghostly presence in the dark these two weeks before Halloween. Inside is a thriving patch of sweet potatoes that I continue to nurture, holding off a harvest until just before the first frost — a date whose arrival is anyone’s guess in this time of accelerating climate instability.
One of the roosters lets out a challenging crow behind me. Taking that as a signal, and with my coffee cup now empty, I turn to finish my early morning stroll, first past the ram lambs and the sleeping ducks, then on to the orchard and the grapevines, before circling back to the front door and inside for breakfast.
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The Independent Farmstead (Dougherty): another Chelsea Green title, this one, although geared for the newbie, also seems to have plenty to consider for someone already farming.