It was an extremely wet spring in Mississippi. Extremely wet. Due to the constant rain in May, it was mid-June before my neighbor could get into the pasture for the first hay cutting of the year. And if you have never watched a large hillside pasture transform from a beautiful but dull yellow-brown, almost fuzzy appearance, to a crisp, bright green, then you truly need to one day see it.
I was mesmerized by the tractor as it criss-crossed the hillside, north-to-south and south-to-north, creating neat rows of newly cut hay; and again, when those long rows were bundled and baled, the tiny-when-see-from-afar tractor stopping to let a finished bale plop to the ground before slowly moving on. And it you still giggle at childish potty humor, it is truly difficult not to laugh when the tractor stops every so often to “dump” a bale.
The green that bursts forth when hay is first cut is so bright, it almost seems fake or man-made. I had never seen that before, likely because the crisp vividness passes quickly as the grass grows and fades, slowly transforming, yet again, to the fuzzy yellow-brown of late summer.
Although they were able to cut the the hay on the entire 40 acres, they were only able to bale up and remove the hay that is west of the pond (as shown in previous photos). The rain came back with a vengeance and prevented them from baling the hay on the east side of the pond.
One additional gift from Mother Nature was the full rainbow that appeared over the entire farm, with the farmhouse and barns nestled beneath it, after an unexpected cloudburst and rain shower. You can see the color contrast between the vivid green of the newly cut and baled field vs the east-side of the pond where the yellow-brown hay is still on the ground.
Random but related tangent….
I do believe that our focus on productivity-based success has led us to forget how achingly beautiful that ordinary, mundane life events can be. But to notice these simple things, your life *has* to be slowed down, almost to what feels like a snail’s pace in comparison to the pace of what modern society dictates.
The Feminine Farmer 