I was walking down the alley with the dogs yesterday evening and ran into this girl…
She was tall, and slim, and wearing a well-worn pair of muck boots like she knew something about the business of mud.
Her barn coat was a little rough around the edges and shrugged comfortably across her shoulders as she warmed her hands in her pockets.
Her scarf was set just so, casual and deliberate, just so to warm and breath, and there was a rosiness to her cheeks that suggested she knew the winter evening more than passing.
She told me she was checking the cows. That the calf was nibbling on hay now, but didn’t seem to like it and went straight back to his momma for milk to wash it down.
She told me the sheep have “the waddle” –the one that usually means twins. Soon.
She told me the chickens were cozy. That the barnyard was mucky. That the feeding troughs needs to be rotated.
She told me, this girl farmer I ran into, that she was watching. She had checked up. That her little corner of land was under control and all was set right. Then she invited me in for a cup of coffee, since she had turned it on before she went out for chores.
And I thought…11 is not so far from 37, when a girl is a farmer.
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