Hayseed

Living in the wild is quite an experience. I just whacked an acre of tall grass and weeds, three more to go, just to maintain a little patch where it matters, so I don't lose control of it. Snakes in the grass is a real issue, and I've learned what "hayseed" means. Takes 15 minutes of effort with a whisk broom and then water to get clean, after an hour of beating back Nature. The invasive wild grape vines are a threat to life and limb, and every variety of broadleaf wants to eat the walkway, the barn, driveway, gardens, tool shed, and pumphouse. I'd poison them, but it would take a thousand gallons and I don't care to spray myself in the process. The primary purpose of whacking back profusely wild Spring growth is to announce to those who drive past my property on the county road that I'm here, mind your manners and stay clear, unless you're invited to visit. A half dozen folks stop by from time to time, nice people who care about me and my dog. We chat a few minutes. When I was ill, they were worried enough to bring hot vittles and broth. Sometimes they invent chores I can do for pocket money.

The butterflies are beautiful, five species, jet blue, orange, tiny little powder blue, speckled, and black P-38s with a long split tail. Ants everywhere and every size, a constant battle to keep them at bay. Huge hedgehogs and silly bunnies. Black bear and raccoon, serious threats. Neighbors have seen bobcat. Coyote packs threaten cattle herds. Spectacular eagles, equally grand hawks, giant turtles migrating to complicate road traffic, and whitetail bucks barking to marshal their females. Wild turkey, quail, loud choruses of frogs at night. Every sort of crawling bug and moth you can imagine. I don't want to talk about ticks. Let me repeat that. I don't want to talk about ticks.

Thunderstorm on the horizon. Big ones knock down limbs and uproot weak trees. "Windfall" has a specific referent, picking shit up after a big storm. I've been fighting the sycamore to keep it from eating a 7000 volt high line and fighting herds of wasps to keep them from eating me. On a cool day, there's firewood rounds to split with a heavy mawl, bank it in neat stacks under roof to provide heat next winter.

A finch has taken it into her head that it's her barn, her stack of wood to nest in. I walk in to do something or other, and she suddenly panics, a great fluttering of protest. If the male is nearby, he flies to the rescue, chrips loudly. Ooops. Another nest just outside my office door, teeny weeny chicks peeping when Mom or Dad arrives with a worm.

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