At Grandma’s Farm
The frogs are so loud tonight, there must be a million of them down by the river.
We planted seeds today. Nasturtiums, peas and california poppies all along the driveway. We talked of wisterias, of pear trees and the hundreds of tomatoes we’ll pick in the summer.
The air was sweet and thick with wafts of spring as we crawled over the big maple which now blocks the path through the forest. The newly exposed wood still echoed that enormous crack.
The trees here are ancient. Their tattered branches swathed in thick green moss majestically reach up to the eagles, still singing their prayers for the elders who have survived the ages. Trusted neighbours who’ve witnessed centuries of change and have felt the shift in the river, now swollen and carrying fallen friends to the bend where the beavers play.
Our beach was gone, and so we found the hidden bank on the other side of the field. The sheltered rock bed let the children play in the shallows and skip rocks while they flooded their boots with the chill of spring rain.
The wind is daring me to shower outside tomorrow…