This weekend most of the cattle were brought out to pasture.
For the next 3-5 months, they will graze endlessly and moo under the hot sun, flapping tails over back to fight relentless bugs.
The process of moving cattle is a smooth one, and before you know it, this loud little homestead quiets down enough to hear the heathen crows cackle over a prospective lunch.
The bulls will be here a while longer, as will my three fattening calves.
Less ranch work means more time in the field, but Sundays are always restful. You can count on that.
We shore fished a while, and it was quiet and peace-filled unless you consider the short time a young Hutterite boy walked over to talk, then leaving to return to his girlfriend and their date partners, taking photos and holding hands.
Soon the line jerked, Country Man jumping up in anticipation, me always five-seconds too slow.
I catch a glimpse of an eight-year old boy when we fish. I’m in love with boy and the man both.
As I sit and he reels, I think back on a week previous that was difficult, unkind and uncertain, and the waves chop, a good sign for walleye seekers.
Country Man takes a chair, and using his pocket knife, begins to carve into a clay rock. He takes his time, never one to do sloppy work.
He finishes and hands it to me, this gift:
I probably don’t fully understand what it means, Maya Angelou’s words…
but I know it’s for us all.