Leaning against the fence that surrounds the yard are two battered and worn pitch forks, and a rusty green wheelbarrow that squeaks when you push it. I’ve been using the forks and the barrow to pick up the rounds of cow manure, sometimes poetically called “cow patties,” that dot the grass near the house.
My plan isn’t fully developed, though, because I don’t know where to put my sqeaky wheelbarrow-fuls, since we haven’t actually made a compost pile yet. For now, I’m building a pile in back of the garage, near the twin “T”s of the laundry line that I’ve restrung with metal wire (the grasshoppers will eat rope lines).
These are all signs of spring: the cleaning up, the busy-ness, the spikey blades of bright green grass waiting patiently beneath each loosened cow patty, like a surprise. But the best sign is this–the brilliant Bluebird I watched land on the birdfeeder as I sat in the kitchen alcove, drinking my morning coffee.