Prime

a monastic hour

Just after sunrise is an active office, a time for movement and chores, a time when reflection and observation are often drunk on the go, when dark gives way to light and to shadows. This begins the dutiful time of day, when the role of husbanding demands an attentive service. It is a time of rivers.

The back door shuts, a signal carried to the barnyard and picked up by the slumbering ram. He rises, and the bell around his neck wakens the flock. The ewes rise in unison. They gather together with expectant murmuring, awaiting my arrival. An open gate, a shaken bucket of feed, and the river rushes forward, eddies around my legs, erodes my stability before flooding into the fresh grass: a flock experiencing the full pleasure of an early spring morning. The chickens mirror in lesser volume the actions of their ovine sisters. They stream out of the coop and into the sunlight, bugs and scratch high on their list of priorities.

Below the farm, down the hill at the road, the world of man has begun to reassert a misshapen dominance. The two-lane highway, a rising water approaching flood stage, threatening to overwhelm, is quickly engorged by the tributaries of commuter cars and trucks flowing into its main channel. Among them, a school bus moves in and out of the road current, accumulating children, eventually depositing them like a debris field after a storm, to be trained in the finer points of boredom and disengagement.

After an hour or two the morning flood will subside to a trickle before the mystery reverses itself in late afternoon. In the meantime my path is a well-trodden one of scheduled rituals, starting with feeding and watering all who need it. I end the office leaning over the paddock fence. I watch with pleasure as the pigs enjoy (in a way that only pigs can) their early morning breakfast—a pause in my activities, a quiet few minutes to review the day to come.

I turn from those in my care now fed, the initial flow of morning chores observed, and return to the house for my own breakfast. The fine blue sky is now streaked with half a dozen contrails, sad evidence of our misplaced search for wonderment.

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This is another “note” from my book, Kayaking with Lambs.