NO FARMER

It’s been ages since I have seen that old farmer. But…he may appear yet. I liken him sometimes to a phoenix, though I am not familiar with his ashes. People say he is old and doesn’t come around much to tend the forest and fields. Maybe in a way, in a secular way, they are not incorrect. But the farmer has to live, you see. He is part and parcel there. Just when long stretches without him in sight finish announcing themselves, like a drought, like something, - there is calm. Then, - he reappears, like a vision or a phantom (though that he is not). And he is cutting a fallen tree that has blocked the path, or else riding a small tractor (that is small to him but not small to me) - through the forests in order to find such trees. I don’t know. 

There are paths that wind up and are secretive, - they house in certain places, almost unknown, the raspberry bushes feral and honest and wonderful. Some of those branches have black and red berries on the same tree, and others have actual berries that are black and red. I pause, - half expecting the entire world to come rushing in and see it all, - but nobody is around, - not even the farmer. When he does appear he is tallish and spry, wears denim and plaid (like a farmer should), and is always a good steward of the land. Sometimes we exchange a few words, and sometimes we just nod in acknowledgement. I told him once I saw two coyotes. I think they speak somehow to one another, he mused, even when they are pretty far apart. He once mentioned something about the valley, and I sensed it was a word of caution, but this was an underlying tone, - could have been nothing, and could have been something. 

The valley. I went there today. The valley is not off limits, but I have never walked the entire bottom. I should. I went about a hundred yards off the track, into the valley, and on the way up side, I stopped because I could feel something. What was the something? It was an energy shift. In the middle of practically nowhere, the energy is purer vibrationally, - untouched, - almost or actually connected through some invisible live wire or field or portal, to the Source, to goodness. The path is a bit different for people, even though few, have walked along it, and it is as if the path there retains an imprint, a energetically signature. Down off of it, - I could hardly believe the purity. I gazed around at the fallen birches, the pine needles, the dirt, the moss covered rocks and the sun which came down in shards, in silent notes of sun-song, - to touch the valley floor and side. 

But still no farmer. Once he was walking a dog that passed away. Once he was kicking a small tree that had

sprouted upon the path because he knew that particular tree would be problematic. Once he was just walking. Once, and once, and once make thrice. I kept along. There were wildflowers, more berries, many mosquitoes though I noticed the natural spray did seem to help quite much and besides, it smelled pleasant, - like lemon or vanilla or even sharp coconut. The little water river at the bottom with clear water had been passed and but stopped at first. The top of the valley afterwards was traversed, and the back pathways, then the open fields, - nothing lurid or craven or unsung. Rather, - everything benevolent and upright and well. Birds somewhere loquacious. What were they saying? Hawk in the distance. The Queen’s Lace flower, - hundreds, perhaps thousands, - it is there time…there are many ‘blooms’ I have learned within a single spring or summer. The clover, one of my favorites, - is over for now- maybe for the year, - though there are some around.

For long moments there is quiet. Insects forage and fly. Bees, wasps, other things I don’t know the names of. Rarer are the butterflies and dragonflies though they are around. Sometimes there is a snake or a frog or a turtle, - always just trying to make their way somewhere, - and when I see them I look closer, - as close as possible- and they see me, - sometimes freeze or sometimes keep on going. I continue. No farmer. Not today. 

Maybe as I walk under the blue sky that is later to turn ominous and let out a parcel of rain, he is sleeping somewhere in his room or on a chair in a barn, - catching up on dreams and what a farmer dreams well I have no idea because as I think a great playwright Chesterton wrote (I think), We are all in this together alone. So I book, because the time has come, to the vehicle, to the streets, to the asphalt that bumps me up and down and up again and alone. 

No farmer but still the white cumulus and the flaxen field with lush verdant perimeters nevertheless. And that, methinks, is as well as anything.

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