Milking the Rooster

I hold a definate sense of being bound to the earth. Not just by gravity, but by something in my blood, or deep in my being. Something about living in interaction (symbiosis?) with the earth and world around me, hand in the earth. The right tools feel like a natural extension of my arms and my intention, the sweet smell of good, well tended earth stirs a passing excitement.

So am I dedicated, to growing, both my self and my garden. No wonder then, given this connection, that in the wet, quiet months, where naught but weeds will grow, I find myself questioning this aspect of my character. Alright, I find myself outright hating the cold miserable soil, wondering what the fuck I’m doing out again in the bitter numbing cold, when there is rare beauty to tracked down, strange wonders and humour that shakes the very belly existence.

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