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We just moved in.
Cows and goats as neighbors.
Mangy dog hunting varmnits.
Old hardwood floors.
A backporch for houseplants, smoke breaks, muddy boots.
Our white shanty farmhouse.
Windows abound; sparrows nests on the ledges.
The steady clack and rumble of trains.
A room to be my Study.
She rose with the roosters, just before the sun peaks above the horizon, as any farm wife should.
In the early mornings, the small farmhouse filled with the smells of coffee and bacon and eggs frying.
Her long hair braided loosely down the back of her pale colored dress,
The end of her hair touching the place on her waist where her apron was tied.
She stepped lightly and barefoot about the kitchen,
Fresh sunlight and the sounds of waking animals coming in through the open window.
He comes into the room with the sun,
Hair ruffled from sleep and jaw peppered with stubble,
Worn overalls smelling of dust and straw hanging from his squared and load bearing shoulders.
They eat and talk and smile and love.
In the bright of the afternoon she feeds the animals,
Their calls and cries for her from the fences of their fields, matching seemingly to her singling.
Under the high sun, he walks and talks and plows.
His old stocky horses stomping and heeding and dragging the steel plow through the earth.
They sweat and tend and work and grow together;
Woman and man and plant and beast.
It is nearly noon here now, and we’ve already been up for awhile. Breakfast was fried eggs, freckled and warm from the coop, covered with salt and pepper, and crispy greasy bacon to dip in the bright orange yolks.
We spent fifteen minutes in hot pursuit-meaning he ran around the barn, appearing and disappearing, while I gave chase and tried to shoot him with a bow and arrows.
I am at ease here; the fridge is full of milk, the yard of wood for the bonfire tonight, and my head with thoughts of petroglyphs and praying mantis, and the sex we had on our knees on the wooden floor of the kitchen earlier.
The majority of today I’ve seen behind the lens of my camera; shiny blue glass electric line bulbs. Yellow argiope garden spiders with abdomens the size of grapes. A feisty horse. A teething puppy. A hayloft whose drying onions were illuminated by sunlight through windows.
My mouth tastes like hot coffee and cold mint tea. Hand-rolled cigarettes and semen. Fried eggs and the beer I gargled with when I woke up this morning.
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