The rhythmic droning of a bailer echoes through the valley. Tradition and nature dictates the July 1st cutting. Many round bales roll to their resting places in a field now manicured and exposed. Hungry farmers bathe after filling their bellies and looking at the rewards they just reaped for their livestock. The sun bakes the bare land and wakes sleeping seed to grow up and bloom for the next harvest. Deer run to find a new hiding place and hawks stand guard spying any rodent’s movement ending in their demise. Nature may be cruel, but it is consistent in yielding sustenance again and again—survival of the fittest.
The way of the land. The way to thrive. The thing that lets us open her gifts.
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