Farm Journal – June 13, 2007
   Damp, cloudy. Barn is almost painted. Lilacs are planted. Birch tree is planted. The farm has never looked more beautiful.
   I understand one of the reasons people love Ireland so much on mornings like this one. The farm is shrouded in mist, rising like smoke in the pastures, and behind the big old barns. The hills pop out of the clouds, like rural skyscrapers.
   The barns seem elegant, eternal, as if they grew out of the soil. They manage to be simple, beautiful and useful all at the same time. The cows have come down for water, and it seems to me, to say hello, and they are making their way up to their favorite spot in the shade at the top of the hill. Elvis is a lucky steer to have acres of woods and grass to roam, and good views to ponder.
  The almost ritualistic dance of the dogs and the sheep seems timeless on a morning like this, Rose running out to collect the sheep and guide them to the outer, fenceless pasture. They accept her authority, perhaps grasping that it leads to good grass, and run ahead of her through the gate and into the other pasture, and they spread out and their heads go down and I hear the tearing sounds as they rip up grass. Rose sits alertly keeping watch over things, but, satisfied for once that everything is okay, she is still. Izzy sits eagerly alongside her, happy but a bit non compus. Emma is nearby,  hiding in the bushes, terrified of the sheep. I love this odd, idiosyncratic breed of dogs.  Each one is completely different, in their own irrepressible, sometimes manic way.
  Already, the sun is burning off this shroud of clouds, and soon, it will be hot and sticky. We will take the sheep back in then. But at the moment, I am doing something I might have been doing thousands of years ago, and it is calming and satisfying.