Roots, Wings, and Quiet Evenings

Each day on the farm begins with movement, and yet it is a rhythm I have come to cherish. Morning breaks slowly, with pale light spilling across the trees, calling the animals awake. The chickens stir first, scratching at the earth in search of breakfast. The goats call out soon after, their voices sharp in the cool air, reminding me of their hunger. The dogs, ever patient yet expectant, wait by their kennels for me to bring food and fresh water. My own day starts here — not with a clock or an alarm, but with the steady pulse of the lives I am entrusted to care for.

Between these routines, I find myself pulled into the small distractions of life: phone calls, quick tasks, and sudden interruptions that come without warning. Still, I have learned to treasure the stolen minutes. A quiet pause while the water trough fills, a breath of air beneath the shade of an old tree, or the brief stillness before the goats finish their grain. These are the moments that carry me through the day, steadying my mind before I press forward to complete the tasks that lie ahead.

By evening, there is a final push — one last round of feeding, tending, and ensuring that all is in order. The kennel dogs must eat, the goats need their hay, the cottage dogs wait for their bowls to be topped off. These chores may seem repetitive, but within them lies a sense of purpose. Each task connects me to this place, to these creatures, and to the quiet passage of time. And when all is done, when the sun dips low and the farm begins to hush, I am reminded that peace is found not in the absence of work but in the rhythm of it.

This land has its own stories to tell. Among them was the winged elm that grew proudly near the farmhouse. It began as a seedling, emerging soon after Dan established the farm in 1979. Over the years, it became a silent witness to our lives — to the seasons of planting and harvest, to the laughter of friends, and to the long days of labor. Then, after decades of quiet resilience, an unusually bitter winter came. The cold weakened the elm, leaving it vulnerable to disease. In time, it withered and was gone, leaving behind only its memory.

And yet, life never ends so cleanly. From the fallen elm’s legacy, seedlings now appear in unexpected corners of the farm. They push up from the soil with quiet determination, reminders that renewal follows loss. In them, I see both the fragility of life and its persistence. The elm may be gone, but its story is not finished. Its roots live on in these young trees, carrying forward what was once thought lost.

It is in moments like these that I am reminded of life’s true nature: nothing is permanent. The chickens that crowd my feet today will one day be gone. The goats, with their mischievous calls, will fade into memory. Even the dogs, faithful and constant, will eventually pass. And we, too, will follow. Life is a cycle, one that spares no creature, no tree, no person.

Yet in this truth there is no despair. For dusk always arrives, calm and unchanging. When the day’s work is done and the animals settle, dusk drapes itself over the farm like a gentle blanket. The sky softens, the air cools, and a quiet peace descends. It does not ask for anything, nor does it waver. While all else moves, fades, and passes, dusk remains steady — a constant presence that reassures me that even in impermanence, there is something eternal.

I find comfort in knowing this. As night approaches, I can stand among the trees, hear the last rustle of wings as hummingbirds retreat to their hidden perches, and feel the stillness deepen. These are fleeting moments, yes, but they carry a weight far greater than their length. They remind me that peace is not something distant, not something to chase. It is here, in the cycle itself, waiting to be seen in the ordinary.

Tomorrow will come with its work and its duties, just as yesterday did. The animals will call again, the seedlings will stretch higher, and dusk will fall once more. And so the cycle continues, steady and familiar. Perhaps that is the greatest gift this farm offers: the reminder that life’s beauty is found not in permanence, but in renewal, in rhythm, and in the quiet whisper of dusk that never fails to return.