Late October. A certain quality of light gathers itself in the pale yellow cottonwood, its leaves barely trembling, causing us to pause a moment, exhale between endless farm chores. And the tomatoes, now scattered over every square inch of kitchen counter and stacked in racks by the thousands in the garage, are the memories of summer, of youth, sweet and tart and ephemeral, sometimes ripening, sometimes rotting. Living on the farm causes us to live deeply with the seasons: yesterday’s dirt from garlic planting still stuck in the crevices of my palm, tomorrow’s harvest of arugula to make pesto and freeze for the winter is on the mind, but for a moment nothing at all seems to matter, not life or death, past or future, money or lack of it; all that matters is that yellow manifesting itself into a cottonwood, the faint papery sound of leaves, and me and my wife just sitting on the porch in a glider, gently rocking back and forth.
Patrick Loafman, editor