A Sunday Stroll

The mid-January thaw is on.  This afternoon we took a leisurely stroll down to the east line and back.  Such a difference between this Sunday afternoon and one a few weeks ago.  Truly amazing.

We have a huge flock of meadow larks that spend most of their time in our pasture.  One was singing to the setting sun as we made our way toward the fence line.  I love their song.  It never fails to lift my spirits and make me smile.

A hawk flew overhead.  Andy said he had seen a male marsh hawk a few days ago.  We generally just see females.  I wonder where the males hunt.  Somewhere exotic and dangerous while their mates stick to the common, ordinary routine, crisscrossing our hayfield in search of something to eat?

I spied a small run in the grass.  A tiny creature had tunneled his way across the path, perhaps not realizing that he was exposed to the sky.  I would imagine it was a field mouse or tiny vole.  Our place is alive with little varmints who keep the bigger varmints happy and well fed.

Climbing down the sloping hill we saw where the deer bedded down each night.  We have quite a few of them who keep our carefully planted and watered trees eaten down to the nub.  Some we have saved.  But the deer like anything out-of-the-ordinary and they browse to their hearts' content, wiping out a whole stand of little pines in one meal.

Walking over to the neighbor's fence line I find the faint trace of the old road that went along our southernmost line and down the hill to the creek.  I have heard many stories about this track through the woods.  And if I close my eyes I can almost hear the horses and wagons as they pass by me on their way home.

I guess that is one of the charms of my new home.  It is so steeped in Ozark's history.  It was farmed and tended and walked over by many people through the years.  Some have shared their hunting and adventure stories with me.  And some have added historical notes that I would have never known.  How fortunate we are to have found our place out here where the past comes alive and joins our plans for the future.

I look up and see a jet streaming overhead, its contrail a white streak in the sky.  I wonder about the people sitting in that plane.  They can't see me.  All they see is the blue sky and the setting sun ahead of them to the west.  We are in that part of the country known as the 'fly-over' zone.  Half way between here and there.  To some, we are of little or no account.

I don't know about you, but I am happy to be where I am.  I have no desire to enter the mad dash from coast to coast.  City streets hold no magic for me.

I would rather take a Sunday stroll over fifty acres of Ozark farmland and hear the meadowlark's evening vesper call.  I would rather be here, where day is slowly fading into star-studded splendor.  Owls call.  Coyotes howl.  And tomorrow promises to be another beautiful day.