There is on a farm like ours a sense of waiting, of anticipation in the spring. We wait for the soil to warm and dry, for the grass to start to boom, the annual plants to begin to sprout. Gardens are partially planted, seed ordered, machines prepared, the farrowing house ready for the spring litters. Chickens begin to roam the yard in search of whatever tastes good in an egg. As the temperatures jack up and down and all things hold their breath and hope for the new season, we occupy ourselves with making the animals more comfortable, bringing them out of their winter confinement and toward the sun. We begin to haul the winter pile of manure to the crop ground that needs it, preparing it for the seed.
The cattle sense the time better than we. They begin to hate their hay, instead gazing wistfully across the fence to the grass in the next paddock over, which begins to intensify in greenness as it readies itself for the coming spring growth surge. Soon there will be not enough hours in the day for us to do the work.
