To: "homestead AT lists.ibiblio.org" <homestead AT lists.ibiblio.org>
Subject: [Homestead] Verlyn enjoys November
Date: Fri, 26 Nov 2004 08:06:34 -0700
THE RURAL LIFE
At the Edge of the Visible
By VERLYN KLINKENBORG
Published: November 26, 2004
Darkness seems to collect at this time of year, as though it had trickled
downhill from late June's solstice into the sump of November. Fog settles
onto damp leaves in the woods - not Prufrock's yellow fog or the amber fog
of the suburbs, but a gray-white hanging mist that feels like the down or
underfur of some pervasive beast.
White birches line the slopes beyond the pasture as if they were there to
fence in the fog, to keep it from inundating the house in a weightless
avalanche. The day stays warm, but even at noon it feels as though dusk has
already set in. The chickens roost early. The horses linger by the gate,
ready for supper.
Usually I feel starved for light about now. But this year I've reveled in
these damp, dark November days. It's a kind of waking hibernation, I
suppose, a desire to live enclosed, for a while at least, in a world
defined by the vaporous edges of our small farm.
My ambition extends all the way to feeding the woodstove and sitting with
the Border terrier, Tavish, in my lap, which perfectly suits his ambitions.
The frenzy of the spring garden has long since faded. My plans to refence
the place, to make it sheep-proof, have been put on hold for another year.
We're just sitting around waiting for the ground to freeze.
This is not how it's supposed to be, I know. I keep an endless mental list
of the things that need to be done. But when a gray day comes, when the
horses stand over their hay as though there were all the time in the world
to eat it, one of the things that needs to be done is to sit still.
The ducks and geese are especially good at that. They come out of their
yard in a rush in the mornings and forage ravenously across the pastures
and into the garden debris. But an hour or two later they lie quietly on
the lawn, like ships on a green sea, some gazing intently at the world
around them, some with their heads tucked into their wings. I consider
myself a student of their stillness.
On a gray November day, it's surprising how long it takes the light to
finally fade. Not long ago I visited a friend on her ranch in eastern
Colorado. She wanted to work her sheepdog, Wiz, in an enclosure set among
the cottonwoods in a sandy draw. The very edge of darkness had already
come. My friend drove a small flock of Katahdin sheep, scattering, out of
their pen. At the sight of Wiz darting back and forth, they bunched.
There is not much luminosity in a sheep's fleece, but there was enough to
rest my eyes upon. After a while, the sheep returned to their pen, and we
walked down a path under the cottonwoods to the edge of a meadow. We stood
in full night. But out in the shortgrass, dusk still lingered as though it
might never go out.