It’s Life Darling But Don’t Call It Bucolic

It’s a shiny, misty morning. Clouds criss cross the sky, leaving gaps for the glaring sun to pierce through on occasion, illuminating a landscape green with recent rain and cast in shadow by the low fog that wisps across the valleys.

Dew is heavy on the ground and, although we have had unseasonably warm days during May, the fact that winter is no longer coming, is in fact here, is evidenced by the stubbornness with which the dew clings to the lengthening grass. In a short week our yard has gone from growing green grass to forming a jungle of marshmallow weeds and native grasses that grow in thick tufts. The boggy ground will make using the mower difficult and we may have to bring out the whipper-snipper.

The local farmer has dropped off another couple of rams, making that five now, and they’ll winter on our hilly back paddock, leaving the ewes alone while they lamb and suckle. He said he’d happily come and look after our chooks for us if we went away, let the sheep roam in the front paddock too, maybe they’ll eat some of that grass we never got to mow. And I’ve finally convinced him that I’m not a vegetarian and neither is my wife (anymore), so next time he kills a lamb there’s half of one coming our way.

Life in our sleepy country town may not be bucolic* but it sure is uplifting to know that there’s people willing to help where they can.

* For my wife – Alternative definition: that sickening feeling you get when your plans turn to dust because of treachery and mansplaining.


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