Seasonal shift

This year summer crept up on us and caught us off-guard.

Sure, the calendar says it’s still spring but the temperature, the humidity, the bugs say otherwise. It’s summer as far as I’m concerned and the farm looks ratty.

Martin bush hogged the fields so they look okay but our mower blew a belt or bent a blade — I can’t recall the malfunction — but it was carted away a week ago for service. And in its absence, the lawn around the house has run amok. It’s this matted green mess, a bushy head of hair that hasn’t seen a comb or scissors and is quickly approaching the dreadlock phase.

In the morning the unkempt grass holds gallons of dew that soak our shoes as soon as we step off hte deck. in the evenings I warn the kids to keep their shoes on, rather than risk stepping on the slew of honey bees that hover in the white dutch clover that dots the lawn.

And it’s not just the yard’s mangey appearance. its the reminders of all the other things that we should have done in spring like deworm the sheep….and …You try not to think about it all but it’s staring you in the face.

After dinner, we decontaminate the kids who look like they’ve just emerged from a coal mine. in truth they’ve been splunking rocks and wood in the murky rainfilled pot holes onthe drive, and they wear hazy gray masks of gravel grime, streaked with sweat and post dinner popsicle runoff.

But after they ‘ve been scrubbed and bathed and lulled to sleep by the rumble of a window unit, martin and i venture up the drive to walk the dog…and of course the cats who insist on trailing or tripping us.

it’s cooled enoiught to drive the bugs away and in the near darkness hides all the work we need to do. it’s quiet, except the hooting train and the tree frogs. under a hazy moon we look out over hte neighbor’s waist high hay field. a quick glance and you’ll miss it but train your eyes over the darkened expanse and it’s right there in front of you. a magnificient firefly light show, drifting just above the grassy seed heads. it’s like a rock concert — a million lighters — or a flickering strboe lights in a club only these rae just a