SHED THE CHARADE
The horses, two of them, have stayed
near the gate - far too long for the afternoon
it seems. Harry the Haymaster, or whatever
the name of that little Mexican guy with a bale is,
comes over to see what's occurred. He doesn't
speak much, English anyway, so I don't even bother
to talk. Another guy, Eduard, I know, walks from the
barn with two mesh pails filled carefully with new
brown eggs. Forty or so per pail, I guess, makes eighty;
sold by the dozen in the farm-store nearby. Sorted
and packed in the usual egg-crate, they don't stay
that very long. Pricey but good. Free-range chickens, or
somesuch crap. In the yard here are three of the
noisiest, meowiest, cats I've ever heard or saw.
They've waltzed around in little cat circles, meowling
and bumping into one another - it's absolutely crazy
to watch. What they want beats me. To my left - two
precious goats with the softest ears and noses, and some
ridiculous Shetland pony with too much mane bumps up
against his corral, almost in annoyance. 'Too bad pal,' I
say underneath my breath. Maple Ridge Farm, Colllier's
Orchard, Pierce Hill Dairy : whatever they call themselves
here works for what they sell. Poultry. Milk. Eggs. Meat.
The gravel parking lot, bare except for maybe two cars,
seems slim but steady all afternoon long. One customer, then
another. Down along the side, the old farmhouse beckons.
The horses, two of them, have stayed
near the gate - far too long for the afternoon
it seems. Harry the Haymaster, or whatever
the name of that little Mexican guy with a bale is,
comes over to see what's occurred. He doesn't
speak much, English anyway, so I don't even bother
to talk. Another guy, Eduard, I know, walks from the
barn with two mesh pails filled carefully with new
brown eggs. Forty or so per pail, I guess, makes eighty;
sold by the dozen in the farm-store nearby. Sorted
and packed in the usual egg-crate, they don't stay
that very long. Pricey but good. Free-range chickens, or
somesuch crap. In the yard here are three of the
noisiest, meowiest, cats I've ever heard or saw.
They've waltzed around in little cat circles, meowling
and bumping into one another - it's absolutely crazy
to watch. What they want beats me. To my left - two
precious goats with the softest ears and noses, and some
ridiculous Shetland pony with too much mane bumps up
against his corral, almost in annoyance. 'Too bad pal,' I
say underneath my breath. Maple Ridge Farm, Colllier's
Orchard, Pierce Hill Dairy : whatever they call themselves
here works for what they sell. Poultry. Milk. Eggs. Meat.
The gravel parking lot, bare except for maybe two cars,
seems slim but steady all afternoon long. One customer, then
another. Down along the side, the old farmhouse beckons.
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