Monday, December 10, 2012

On a warm-ish day in December Tuesday and I plodded around the pasture together.  She practiced stretching her stride and I practiced staying on.  As we walked along the fence-line separating us from the grasslands the wind combed through the baptisia skeletons knocked from their dried moorings and blown into the fence like midwestern tumbleweeds.  The sound of their pods clattering together was like the ghost of native american ceremonial rattles and we paused and were still for a moment, just listening.  It was a bumper crop of baptisia this year.