Poetry Friday: Harvest edition

We’re in the midst of harvest. We’ve cut and baled the greenfeed (oats and barley baled instead of combined), cut and baled the second-cut alfalfa, and have just started swathing the wheat, and the mixed crop of barley and peas, in preparation for combining. Most of the harvest work is being done this year by Tom and the kids; the three of them are helping out moving trucks around, and also gathering up bales with the loader. With Tom busy with carpentry work during the day, the harvesting gets done in the evenings, which makes for late nights for the kids. They come in the house dusty, tired, but with eyes shining telling tales of the coyote pups they’ve seen in the fields, the bald eagle, and their various accomplishments and helpful activities. It goes without saying that we have a modified school schedule in the mornings, which is good news for our readalouds.

I’ve been helping out along the edges (around midnight, while the kids are sleeping, I head out to pick up Tom from the swather in our field 10 miles north), and continuing with the canning and preserving. So far I’ve made mustard pickle, chokecherry jelly, chokecherry syrup, red plum jam, yellow plum jam, peach preserves, and canned peaches. Still to come: tomato sauce (beginning today, because the 50 pounds of tomatoes from the garden have started ripening faster than we can eat them), canned pears, pickled beets, and Evans cherry jam. And the other day the kids and I picked boxes and boxes of apple to squash into cider.

It’s been a beautiful autumn so far. By the calendar it doesn’t start until next week, but in real life it’s been here for about a month. We haven’t had much rain since the cooler weather arrived, and this past week there have been some lovely, hot Indian Summer days, though the nights are quite cool. The kids’ pumpkins are still on the vine — covered with old sheets some nights — and turning orange. The leaves on the trees are particularly vivid this year, especially the yellows.

The birds are gathering and departing. Our hummingbirds have been gone for almost a month, and the goldfinches too. But we have a small flock of meadowlarks in the yard, and I’m enjoying the last burst of song before they go. And geese, oh the geese, Canada and snow — there are hundreds, if not thousands, overhead, in the pasture and the pond across the road, down the hill in the neighbors’ fields, eaten the fallen grain. There’s not much a scarecrow could accomplish around here, but I like the idea.

The Lonely Scarecrow
by James Kirkup (b. 1923)

My poor old bones — I’ve only two –
A broomshank and a broken stave.
My ragged gloves are a disgrace.
My one peg-foot is in the grave.

I wear the labourer’s old clothes;
Coat, shirt, and trousers all undone.
I bear my cross upon a hill
In rain and shine, in snow and sun.

I cannot help the way I look.
My funny hat is full of hay.
– O, wild birds, come and nest in me!
Why do you always fly away?

For more Poetry Friday fun, head over to author amok, where Laura is hosting the weekly roundup! Thank you, Laura.