It is autumn now. I should be writing poetic blogs about geese on the wing, abundant golden harvests, or maybe a symbolic essay about the seasons of life. I’m not in the mood.
Every day the sun comes up later, and goes down earlier. The drought has drained my beautiful pond, my pasture has fried and died. Hay prices are simply impossible. Some of the elder barn residents are…
ContinueAdded by Anna Blake on September 21, 2012 at 8:31am — 2 Comments
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