By Joyce Sutphen
My father’s farm is an apple blossomer.
He keeps his hills in dandelion carpet
and weaves a lane of lilacs between the rose
and the jack-in-the-pulpits.
His sleek cows ripple in the pastures.
The dog and purple iris
keep watch at the garden’s end.
His farm is rolling thunder,
a lightning bolt on the horizon.
His crops suck rain from the sky
and swallow the smoldering sun.
His fields are oceans of heat,
where waves of gold
beat the burning shore.
A red fox
pauses under the birch trees,
a shadow is in the river’s bend.
When the hawk circles the land,
my father’s grainfields whirl beneath it.
Owls gather together to sing in his woods,
and the deer run his golden meadow.
My father’s farm is an icicle,
a hillside of white powder.
He parts the snowy sea,
and smooths away the valleys.
He cultivates his rows of starlight
and drags the crescent moon
through dark unfurrowed fields.
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I was supposed to have blood drawn Friday morning for lab tests before my semiannual physical next week, but my doctor apparently never sent the order to the lab, so I had a cranky morning of fasting and not even getting to do it for the proper reason. It was otherwise a lovely day here, not too warm, so after lunch we walked to the beach and admired the ducks and the eagles. The Orioles and Red Sox played a ridiculous late afternoon game with a hundred pitching changes and score changes that lamentably ended with the Sox winning.
We watched most of the game around dinner -- the Mariners had already lost, the Yankees had already won -- then we watched Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga, which is sadistically violent, fairly misogynistic despite putting the female lead in the title (it's still obsessed with male brutality), and doesn't care whether practical things concerning weapons and gasoline make sense. Anya and Chris give good performances, but the most memorable actor is the little girl who plays young Furiosa. Here are some photos of the animals at Kelsey Creek Farm last weekend:
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