Standing by an open fire, its smoke swayed by a cooling breeze, I look at the tall hybrid poplar trees along the farm lane. Across the Mikinaak Creek basin, the Red Wing blackbirds twitter from its partial cover of cattail reeds. A far distant jet rumbles by unseen, overhead. Leaves rustle noisily in the oaks behind me.; evening songs of robins, the crackling of the fire; the fragrance of burning wood, its embers glowing gy gusts of wind. Perhaps the coals will last until morning and we can drink our coffee here beside a renewed campfire.
I wonder of our impact here for there is no grand mansion nor log house of character, no machine sheds, no legions of steel grain bins nor acres of concrete padding, underground aeration pipes, no overhead wires or moats around fuel tanks stands against possible fuel spills, no oil-packed driveways, nor depths of seasonal implements hidden by over-grown forests of sweet clover and Canadian thistle, but only one plow, one 3-point blade, one eight-foot cultivator, one brush mower, one snowblower, one tractor, one pickup, a van, two cars, and a house badly in need of painting.
I'll leave little behind, save for the trees we've planted since 1974, and trees born of those trees. There will be those mystic places where the pine needles carpet the ground beneath them so thick that grass nor weeds can sprout and a person or animal can walk soundlessly or places beneath the boughs where the canopies close off weather or daylight to become all encompassing, -- a refuge or solace for anything that chooses its regions. Perhaps storms will devastate it or climate change alter its shape, perhaps some uncaring individual or corporation will simply destroy it to grow unnecessary crops, but who am I to say or care after I walk on? I cannot influence what will be 'after' nor determine what even tomorrow can bring. I've played my hand, done what I wanted in that moment to this point. How could I possibly want for more?
I wonder of our impact here for there is no grand mansion nor log house of character, no machine sheds, no legions of steel grain bins nor acres of concrete padding, underground aeration pipes, no overhead wires or moats around fuel tanks stands against possible fuel spills, no oil-packed driveways, nor depths of seasonal implements hidden by over-grown forests of sweet clover and Canadian thistle, but only one plow, one 3-point blade, one eight-foot cultivator, one brush mower, one snowblower, one tractor, one pickup, a van, two cars, and a house badly in need of painting.
I'll leave little behind, save for the trees we've planted since 1974, and trees born of those trees. There will be those mystic places where the pine needles carpet the ground beneath them so thick that grass nor weeds can sprout and a person or animal can walk soundlessly or places beneath the boughs where the canopies close off weather or daylight to become all encompassing, -- a refuge or solace for anything that chooses its regions. Perhaps storms will devastate it or climate change alter its shape, perhaps some uncaring individual or corporation will simply destroy it to grow unnecessary crops, but who am I to say or care after I walk on? I cannot influence what will be 'after' nor determine what even tomorrow can bring. I've played my hand, done what I wanted in that moment to this point. How could I possibly want for more?
Comments