A quiet beauty blanketed the Vermont landscape this weekend. Nearly a foot of purity glistened under a warm March sun. A bounty of sparkles vibrantly danced for an audience of one as I made my way down the snowy drive. I felt privy to an early morning secret.
A bird song floated on the still New England air and greeted me as I began to make my way down the road. Hardened muddy ruts of varying degrees challenged each footfall. A glimpse at the arrival of our pending fifth season. I ran along in a respectful silence as my thoughts were with a people far from my home but close to my heart.
Recently we had a swath of trees excavated from our land in preparation for a new barn. A backhoe the size of a small building removed them with an alarming ease. Controlled fires managed the debris and smoldered for days. The landscape may have been irrevocably changed but hope resides in the soil…
“Wherever somebody’s fighting for a place to stand
Or a decent job or a helping hand
Wherever somebody’s struggling to be free
Look in their eyes, Ma, and you’ll see me”
The Ghost of Tom Joad, Bruce Springsteen
