Once I had a banjo, made it out of pine

If I don't keep track, I will forget.

Last night I took the dogs down to the creek and we muddled about in the woods. The grass and the rushes and the dogwood have grown to meet me eye to eye and I can barely recognize it from the Spring. We came to the end of the birch trees and maples and found the neighbouring bean fields, turning yellow against the backdrop of overgrown trees with a roof peaking out from beyond the hill, and I felt like I was in farmland Ontario in September, which I was. Which I am... and I am consistently reminded of it.

Caitlin came home and we harvested tomatoes until our only source of light was the almost-full moon. There was a few minutes where she disappeared completely as I waited by the wagon in the stillness of newly fallen night. I looked into the dark field and tried to catch the shadow of her movement distantly down the row. When she returned we hobbled up to the house, drunk on farming 'til sundown.

Slept in 'til 6:50am and dashed to market with enough vegetables to pack four tables and still have bins and bins full behind us. Yvonne ran the market and I sauntered off with my banjo and gathered toonies from the passers by until my string broke.