The farm at rest

Night walking the farm: low clouds, and the come and go of stars. The lights of Keene reflect off the sky, and so the fields have a kind of whiteness, and are reminiscent of snow. Something in me can feel the flakes of light drift down; has, in that paleness, all of winter's peace. In the dimness of the equipment, the four bottom plough is glowing in the dark -- a cool, ghostly light against the ground -- and I cannot convince myself it is the sodium vapor of Keene in that metal, but the stars instead that are glowing at my feet. The dams of China change the rotation of the earth, and so I know, writ large and small, that all matter has its own gravity. The plough is not just light, but a kind of weight there, and I can feel it. In the old sense, this is something only bones know: the plough will not leave the earth. Just one more statement in the proof that we see things more clearly in the dark; old corollary to our knowing that in the fog all things come near.

A bad movie -- blissfully bad -- lets out late, and too tired for sleep, I walk the fields. All day we work, and work, dirty and sweating, and there really is not a thing we do that we can do slowly. And while we work, beyond that blue, the stars turn above us ... though we don't see them. But now it is dark, and I walk with my head up, have again on my tongue that commandment that my night end with stars. This is the farm at rest. The farm at rest. Walking with the grass at my knees, the mist in my lungs, with all that peace of winter -- can you feel this also? as the cool air changes in some places to warm? It is our rest that we walk through.