My life seems filled with words, images. This will be a quiet week, the Fourth. More showings of the farm. One woman e-mailed me from California and said she couldn’t buy a woodshed there for what the farm is selling for and she wanted to come back East.  But she had to convince her husband to move. I thanked her, told her to contact the realtor, not me, and wished her luck. I hope she finds what she wants, but I doubt it will be this farm.

When the farm and its buyer meet, everyone will know it. The farm is dancing with me these days, and when we get close, it whispers to me that it wants a person who loves nature, loves animals, and wants to live their life. It is a Thoreau kind of place, I fantasize. For people who know what is important, know what they love, know that this – doing what you love – is the most important thing there is on the world. Who follow impossible dreams and make them come true.

There are few such people, I know, but they will make their way here. The farm has promised me, and I have promised the farm I will find them. They are close. I can feel it. So says the rustles of the leaves on my path in the wind.