I finally went to the farm on Saturday. It didn’t seem like I had been gone for very long, but everything was different. The greens in the garden looked huge. There were tinges of rusty brown in the pine trees. A frost had put an end to the rioting fall flowers, leaving them delicately dry and brown, like faded lace.
In the garden the old pepper bushes were still loaded with peppers, like colorful Christmas ornaments in the crispy branches. There was no one to pick them before the frost.
I stumbled over an unripe pumpkin, still attached to the umbilical vine.
I walked up to see if Chestnut had her baby yet. The fallen leaves were no longer bright yellows and reds and they crunched under my shoes. She was still extremely pregnant. Her udder was starting to swell. I said hello to Isla, who looked strangely fluffy around her muzzle. Matilda was darker than ever. Her winter coat has always had more black. It was a shock to see how green the winter garden looked, junky debris and all.
And in the pastures, the rye is starting to sprout.