Every time it rains, when the clouds finally leave, I find they have painted the fields a more shocking shade of green.
It seems that every day, there is a new woolly, bright-eyed calf frisking about the pasture.
Night or day, it's never as quiet as it was in the frozen heart of winter. Birdsong, more today than yesterday, and there will be even more tomorrow. A swelling crescendo.
The pond is full for the first time in I-can't-remember-when, and the creek has remembered how to sing, a sing-song Spring song.
Tulip and June Bug forget their years and think for a moment they're as young as Little John. How can such big animals play so riotously, like such small children?!
The Sweet-breath-of-Spring is blooming, its honeysuckle perfume a clarion announcing that summer cannot delay forever! Martha planted a new rosebush this week. Today, Reuben hiked back on the farm and brought home some cuttings of spice bush, now adorning the table.
We're picking out peeps, ordering a new flock. This year's choice: Buff Orpingtons. Go ahead - say it..."Buff Orpingtons." Dare you to not smile! Just talking about Buff Orpingtons increases our anticipation of the arrival of these fuzzy bits of sunshine.
The honeybees have ventured out to say Hello.
found an old poem from baby felix
3 weeks ago