Nature follows pathways of least resistance. Today, while sewing bulbs in the orchard at the wrongtrees time of the year, chasing my toddler from one field into another, running zig-zagged hoping to plant as many guilds as possible, I realized this is why nature occasionally favors the routes we least anticipate. Sometimes it’s simply about getting a job done.

Next spring, I’ll be able to retrace this day’s path through the fields in daffodils mixed up a little by the mouths of ground squirrels. And every year, that pathway will grow, an invisible song to our time as mother and child. How poetic are the quaking leaves of clover, flashing like silver fish bellies in the stream; the new apple trees throwing green to the wind in celebration of taking root.

We breathe meaning as much as air in the orchard, working in the shadow noise of sprayers high on the hill. Working in the dappled light thrown from the looming old pear. Reminders both of our own pathway here.



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