The Prize.

I find my thoughts drifting in the quiet moments.

Seasons peacefully pass while we work the land, slowly. It is all done by hand. hot coffee, woven wool, the garden down the hill. It is all slow. But so sure. There is quality in our work. In the winter the snow drifts heavily outside our single pane, frost patterned windows. We are warm. Bread is baking in the cook stove below and the smell perfumes the air inside the cabin. We are well fed, and well prepared for the days to come. For fresh air and frosty lashes we split firewood. Not that we need to. Our split stacks are piled high. Slow moose amble by us. We are accepted as part of the wilderness. We are well read, by lamplight as the fire cracks below. Content and at peace it is hard not to feel in tune with the rhythm of the life that surrounds us. We feel the earth in our bones, and the water in our blood. 


When the spring comes we plant our large garden, chicks hatch, and a bear dies. The bear survives us through the spring and summer. As the days grow long we find ourselves outside for the most part of the day. With dirt under our fingernails and windswept hair. On rainy days I craft raw material together, bake and write. You, always in a book, or tinkering with some odd broken or out of the ordinary piece. Sometimes you read out loud, sometimes we just listen to the radio. We are connected and are the peace on earth. 


Summer moves us forward and we explore, following all the hidden game trails of the North. We collect antlers, catch fish and wild chickens. In the evening we light fires outside and roast the days catch, while watching the sun dip down behind the mountains. On exceptionally hot days we swim in the many lakes we come across along the way. Me – afraid of the dark water. You -trusting it and all things. Our garden flourishes and we preserve all we can. Once a week we go in to town for the mail and whatever supplies we cannot make or grow. We always look forward to the trip but once in the moment feel anxious for home. 


Fall comes and we shoot again. The air is crisp and hangs cool on our faces longer and longer each shortened day. The animal hangs in our woodshed that is quickly becoming too full of firewood to house the aging carcass. I pick berries and bake pies. Apple pie is my favorite. On a trip to town we bring back with us a dog. You promise to train it (I am too lenient.) It entertains us while we work, eat and rest. The garden is done now and the chickens enjoy the after harvest greens it offers. Quickly the days grow short and frost covers the ground. Once again it is winter, with heavy snow drifting outside our single pane, frost patterned windows. 





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