Turtle Rock Farm

Cattle Grazing on Red Winter Wheat

All winter, we’ve watched nature lie dormant, resting. We’ve watched the light play on the dried prairie grasses, and stood in awe of the glimpses of subtle reds and bronze revealed by the sun. We’ve noticed holes dug in the earth by wintering animals. We’ve watched wintering birds work all day at eating.

And now, Spring comes and the landscape changes and activity increases. If you want to come see, go to our Turtle Rock Farm Retreat website, click on “Workshops and Retreats” and you can sign up for the Encountering the Gifts of Spring Retreat. It’s Saturday, March 21, out here on the prairie in north central Oklahoma. It’s a chance to see Spring, up close.

I heard something rustling in the leaves
as I walked.
It heard me too,
and splashed hurriedly,
awkwardly
(low-to-the-ground bulk not designed for this)
across the shallow stream
and up the bank.
Then it stopped,
as I had.
An armadillo.
A rather large armadillo.
Its armor,
its nine bands,
its chiseled face
tiny ears,
long tail.
It couldn’t see me
and began again to go about its business
of hunting, digging for insects.
And so I had the privilege of just watching.

I learn that the armadillo is closely related
to the anteater
and the sloth.

Oh my,
I’m watching a sloth
right here on the creek.
I recently read Kathleen Norris‘ book about
the vice of sloth, acedia.
Though it doesn’t mean to be,
this cousin-of-sloth,
this gorgeous armadillo
is a gift to me.
To watch it is a great gift.
Gift enough.
But there is more:
get about your business
whatever it is
whatever the struggle
in this life.

February morning
warm enough to sit on the porch
first thing.
It’s hard to imagine that it’s not Spring.
In spite of human warnings
about the possibility of dropping temperatures,
memories of March blizzards,
there are tadpoles in the creek.
Daffodils, full yellow, jarringly bright,
this first explosion of color.
Too, there is a friend’s first sign of Spring:
the coo of turtle doves.
And another friend’s earliest indication:
Mississippi Kites returned from winter trip.

It’s balmy,
moist.
Birds chattering.
Red-winged blackbirds
hanging out in the Hackberry tree above the empty feeder -
“chat – chat- chat, kit – kit” -
a wooden clicky sound, like castinettes.
They sing too,
a flutey, lyrical “un-ka jeeee,”
this chorus in the Hackberry
raising its breakfast song
to a crescendo.

And the baby calves -
a white one born in the north pasture yesterday,
a black one in the pasture across the road this morning.
It’s up and running,
raising its neck and bleating.
There’s nothing like the bleating of a new life
to spring the heart,
however unexpectedly,
back to life.