March was mostly a lamb, mild and meek Devoid of its usual bleak. I thought we’d get lucky But now it’s quite mucky From the 15-inch snowfall last week.
Chicago’s quite light on his feet When the sun shines its spring-level heat. The barn roof of snow Warms up, then lets go And slides off in one big noisy sheet.
For the most part, Moe took it in stride But he’d rather be out than inside. He pooped in his bucket His version of F*#@ it When he heard the first rooftop snow slide.
Ruff and Rowdy thought snow piles were grand Loved to play in the white-covered land. Never minded the cold They burrowed and rolled Chasing snowballs, they climbed and the ranned.
The cats hunkered down in the barn shop Out the door, two tabbies would not pop. They had food, choice of stall To take care of it all Content ‘til they saw the last snow drop.
We may still have one last winter fling Warm weather’s not yet a sure thing. But the air has less chill And the birds have more trill So there’s hope, it will really be spring.
We were coddled by a mild December Spared the snow and cold that we remember But the new year brought a frigid change Which made the winter not so strange
I bundle up and trundle out to live this life I’ve chosen With gratitude for thick warm socks and boots to slide my toes in The weight and bulk of extra layers make daily chores take longer But I muddle through and I’m still here, so I guess I must be stronger?
Ruff and Rowdy are always game to hike the trails at the park But our daily treks are shorter now, to be sure we’re back by dark They like the rhythm of routine, how it connects to time to eat They recognize it’s mealtime, and when they get their treat
Youthful Fennel still patrols the perimeter of the grounds Frosty footing shall not stop him from his self-appointed rounds But oldster Mace stays in the barn throughout the winter season With food and heat and comfy beds, and horse stalls that he pees in
Chicago and Moe in shaggy coats survive the frigid weather In their shelter full of forage, standing close together For snack they head to pasture, with its scattered piles of hay To ensure they move a little bit, every single day
The outside chores begin and end within the hours of sunlight Except for final barn check in the dark and peaceful night When I plant a couple kisses on a couple frosty muzzles Then head back in to settle down, with a beverage and some puzzles
This longer stretch of darkness grants permission to just be To read and dream and organize and maybe watch tv Our winter standard time is not so governed by the clock A season of serenity, I try to pause and think, relax, take stock
Winter has worn out its welcome. In proverbial Minnesota Goodbye fashion, the cold and the snow and the wind and the ice loiter in the front entry, hand on the doorknob with the promise of heading out, engaged in endless discourse – “one last thing, then I have to get going”. The ultimate unwanted house guest.
By this time in March, I generally have the pasture closed off with the electric fencer on, to allow the grass to get a head start, unfettered by eager equines starved for the sweetness of fresh forage. But compliments of a steady series of cold fronts and clipper systems, Biskit and Chicago still have 24-hour access to the blanket of snow that is our grazing field.
I watch them navigate the course of our infinitesimal climate change with admiration. For all but 3 or 4 hours of snack-and-snooze stall time, they live outside. Their barn opens to an ample covered space with a rubber-matted floor, a heated water fountain, and easy access to the pasture and dry lot.
Early-morning and late-night hay go under shelter, but unless it’s pouring rain, I scatter midday rations in the pasture to encourage exercise. They then have the option to nibble on the omnipresent bits and pieces littering the shelter floor or meandering out to the greener patches on the snow-covered field, and I marvel at how often they choose to navigate the hock-high snow with their natural snowshoes.
Inspiring really, how they go out or stay in, wait for their blankets, or walk away when they see them coming, picking pelting precipitation over stifling surcingles. Even when hunger isn’t driving them, they’ll venture out in the elements, sometimes simply standing, natural sponges to the natural showers. They stroll back to the barn when I slide open the door, coats curled and manes marcelled, no sign of discomfort or discontent.
Biskit and Chicago are cognitive creatures, with environmental awareness and excellent memories, able to choose to stand up front at the gate or out back by the fence, socialize or stay away, soak up the sun, snooze in the shade, or drench themselves in downpours. Good with their choices, ok with their consequences, they hold no grudges, demand do-overs, throw no tantrums. Well, except for Biskit, who’s been known to bang on the barn door when he deems it dinner time and I decide otherwise.
They are content. And I now opt to follow their lead in acceptance of this never-ending winter of my growing discontent. I will find solace in the stronger sunshine that finally illuminates our days past dinner. I will embrace the cold that allows me to toss hay bales sans sweat, and I will find joy in Mudville as the ground around the barn morphs from packed snow into slimy muck.
Winter will wander on; white will give way to green; and I will wait.
Patiently.
Except for maybe just one tiny kick of the barn door.
From Four Sticks Farm 