I stepped out Sunday morning with coffee and a camera and thought for a moment I heard a turkey gobble. Surely not. Perhaps a starling picked up a new song; they mock bobwhites long gone. The mockingbird sussing out nest sites now mocks the squeak of the dog’s red and blue ball. I heard it again, clearer, from the edge of the field behind the house, maybe two hundred yards off.
It’s that time of year.
The fifteenth of April is our official last frost date; this year cool weather hung around another couple days. But I’ve been able to build fence build beds, move some strawberries and herbs into better spots, and begin putting transplants in the ground. The poultry palace is underway in its final location, the duck run and a half-finished coop for the Speckled Sussex hens. I was chucking to myself in quarantine- the birds, the food, the fence, the coop….these’ll be by far the most expensive eggs I’ve ever purchased.
It also struck me like a bolt from the blue that, the way things are going, the way our nation’s farm workers are treated…I have no regrets.
If you can do something, you should.