GOLDEN HOUR WALK

I walked back on the farm today, first time in longer than I can remember. As I cleared the gate to the back fields, five wooly black calves rocketed away from the creep feeder like banditos caught red-handed in a bank robbery, their heads high and tails stiff.

The erosion levee in the first field used to hold back little more than a puddle. Today, it cradles a full-grown pond.

As I tromped along the ridge above the old pond - the big pond - wood ducks exploded off the water like buckshot out of the end of a gun barrel. Squirrels stampeded through leaf litter, raising enough ruckus to rival a herd of frightened buffalo.

It was the golden hour and the air was brisk. I resolved to hike all the way back to the Three Sisters and to the Giant's Thimble and to Narnia. I have missed these dear friends.

But I was thwarted. The carcass of a month-dead cow blocked the path across my favorite creek crossing. Cows pay the property taxes, and then they die and feed the coyotes, and the farmer who rents the land to run his cows on doesn't even notice that they are missing.

I attempted a different creek crossing but was not wearing boots adequate to ford the deeper water.

So I stood on the near side of the creek and stared long at the Three Sisters, just out of reach, still asleep, just like last time I saw them years ago, dreaming under the gray wool of frostbit broom straw, aglow in the warm light of the golden hour.

Higher boots are on my shopping list. I will be back, and I will kiss my three sweet sisters with my footsteps.