Ground was soft and in afternoon, he pulled posts in forward face to blow off a western wind. In the softness from rains, snows, and saturating mists, the posts pulled easy without need for chain or loader’s aid; and he stacked them in bucket as he went.
The little tractor floated light across the plastic earth, tread sinking as imprint but leaving little more in trail. Half a mile of fence posts pulled, he paused to rest. Intermittent, wind stilled before return again to blow.
There was an early spring fragrance. What it was, he didn’t know; but for two days it had held strong in the air, sign of life returned into dormant-wakes verdure.
With the moisture of the earth and window of warmth and otherwise idleness, he made further plans. He would mow the pasture edges low, keeping leaves and after-chaff low and flat to earth; and then of the weeded and thin-stand pastures, he would set them all to flame opening winter-killed weed-covered earth, burning away seed of the thistles, broomsedge, cockleburs, and burning off denser perennials at bases.
He would start clean, reseeding the after-opened ground with greater grasses and forbes and, by labor and advantage of winter’s mess, he would prepare for the rich of summer’s graze.
That was a piece of farming that he loved—the rest on quiet places and contemplations of how to better work and align to the ways of God’s design and intended advantage. It was deviation from this that made men poor and despaired in needless toils.
He enjoyed the work when the work served purpose and in the windows of opportunity, he made the most. Life and labor, to liver of the seasons, was not a steady grind but bursts when time and conditions were right.
Of warm and muddy—but drying—day, he made the most returning again to burst of labors.