I’ve explored old houses on every farm I’ve worked on. Sheltered from the rain, raised new born lambs, stacked hay bales, treated animal skins, and housed chickens where families once lived. All the ghosts are with the living. Only memories remain, caught in spider webs bullied by dust and time, and unnoticed by passersby.
As we travelled, New Zealand reminded me of all the things I’ve enjoyed:
The smell of fresh cut hay.
The thrill of the chase, smiling dogs, the smell of blood, and the satisfying weight of bringing home dinner.
Milking time. In the middle of winter its not so bad being crapped on by a cow.
Angels in the water.
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