It took me four days and four different spreaders to give the field its vitamins. Each day working until even squinting couldn't show me my row markers in the dusk. Then, at the end of this last one, a smile glimmered over me while I pulled my wagon up, winked back at that tiny doubt, that wondering, if this land would become a farm. What else is a farm, all these years have tried to teach us; what else is a farm, but everything failing, until it finally doesn't?
At the end of this day warm enough to think of shorts, I put my things away, wrenched a few modifications to this last spreader, made my notes, and took a loooong drink of cold water. Dirty in February, and so happy for it. And that's when I heard them. Quite heavy winds, the day newly dark, and out there in the tree row, faint enough in the gusts to doubt it, the dim sound of crickets.