She set out to capture a farm.
She jumped in the old Ford pickup
and stuck to the dirt roads
to cast a wide net
and haul home a truckload.
She drove in wonder
and discovered

morning dew
on a spider’s web
spun between the slats
of a wooden fence
on a hill,
the first rays
of daylight streaming through,
illuminating the
intricate Arachno-haven

steam rising
off the pond,
mama duck schooling her little ones
in the fine art of ripple-writing
on the unlined page

meadow fences
saddled firmly
on the backs
of freshly-mown
lush green rolling hills

ambling across meadows
seeking greener grass
to feast out the day

of haybales
spun in lumpy crumpets,
lying sideways
like warm glazed cinnamon buns
for hungry horses

a barn
hayloft door open
tractor bucket stretching upward
reaching strategically
spoonfeeding bundles of hay
to bale stackers

a much-loved-mutt farmdog
tagging along
on the heels
of his farmer
tail wagging on his way
to his purpose for the day
jumping into the bed of a truck
as the tailgate slams shut

slurping delicious slops
from their trough
pondering all the shady places
to seize the day
once the sun rises high

a communion of horses, cows, and goats
blessing their breakfast buffet
of oaty-alfalfa hay,
each in their own prayerful way

a roiling rooster!
proclaiming the gospel!
like a street preacher!
from a pulpit stump!
neck and scorn straining skyward!
all hellfire and brimstone!
on the perils of laziness!

swarming their hive boxes
nestled in the wood clearing
buzzing up their secret recipe
to sweeten and heal

still droopy sleepers
as the sun creeps upstairs
to tickle their chins
and bring worshipping smiles
to this colorful choir
of breezy sway-dancers

spilling over the crest of a hill
tumbling and scattering downward
Mother Nature’s splatter-painting
countryside graffiti

a lone tire swing
hanging from an oak branch
inviting barefoot toes
to hop in and fly high
to hold on tight
to touch the sky

a hub of donkeys
plotting and scheming
by the broken fence
like old men huddled
in the local coffeeshop
bristling and braying
over town politics

a farmhouse
windows open
curtains billowing out
like arms eagerly welcoming passing folks
to come in for a
buttered bacon-egg biscuit breakfast

and then she realized.

You don’t capture a farm.

…….a farm captures you!

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