artisan sourdough bread
Photo by J. Harrington
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Today, as we hauled the tractor to the shop to get its wiring harness repaired, we noticed more and more trees are bare and barren of leaves, 🍂 although, in some tree tops, leaves have been replaced by large flocks of blackbirds or starlings, assembling for migration. Local soybean and corn fields are joining in barren appearance as they get harvested. There'll be few places in those fields for ghosts, ghouls or goblins to lurk as Halloween 👻 🎃 and Samhain occur later this week. Following those holidays, firearms deer season in our neck of the woods will open in a little more than a week, on November 9. By then, we'll need to dig out the blaze orange coats for dog walking.
a handful of whitetails at a pear tree
Photo by J. Harrington
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We all know that after Halloween and before Christmas comes Thanksgiving, a holiday that often makes me "homesick" for Massachusett's South Shore. I used to live about 20 miles North of Plymouth Rock and the Plimouth Plantation. Sometimes, among the sand dunes along the coast, I'd come across beach plum bushes. This past Summer, the Better Half acquired four bare root bushes. I planted them in pots and they spent the Summer on the deck, well away from pocket gopher teeth. They've now been moved into the house for the Winter. I'm going to be watching carefully for signs of new leafs and/or blossoms come Spring next year. What with the clusters of New England style houses in the area, turkeys occasionally wandering through the field behind the house, a few sugar maples and now beach plums, this New England transplant is beginning to feel at home.
wild turkeys, symbol of Thanksgiving
Photo by J. Harrington
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Bread
By W. S. Merwin
for Wendell Berry
Each face in the street is a slice of breadwandering onsearchingsomewhere in the light the true hungerappears to be passing them bythey clutchhave they forgotten the pale cavesthey dreamed of hiding intheir own cavesfull of the waiting of their footprintshung with the hollow marks of their gropingfull of their sleep and their hidinghave they forgotten the ragged tunnelsthey dreamed of following in out of the lightto hear step after stepthe heart of breadto be sustained by its dark breathand emergeto find themselves alonebefore a wheat fieldraising its radiance to the moon
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