At 5:45 p.m. Sunday the chickens hopped up on the roost, and as all Bedlam Farm animals do, they paused to pose for a group photo. They are learning “photoshoot” too. All animals on Bedlam Farm are working animals, and a sweet and restful good evening to you. Roosting photos on Facebook.
We went to Rocky’s farm to check up on him Sunday, and he was a bit skittish at first, making sure he wasn’t about to get trimmed again, but then settled down. He looks good, strong and healthy. He was happy to see Maria and came over and gave me a strong nose in the belly. That’s how donkeys say hello, also.
The standing barn at the New Bedlam Farm is magical, light streaming in through knotholes and windows, and when I looked up through the window, I saw a lovely painting through the old panes. I know a place is right for us when the magic becomes visible, the possibilities.
At 5:45, p.m., as the sun was hovering over the hill, I heard a voice hissing at me, in this deep and profundo voice – the note of E, I think – and I looked around, and nothing was there but this yellow pansy, catching the last rays of the afternoon, and I could not believe his mellifluous James Earl Jones voice, and he showed his face to me, and I was stunned by his radiance, and he bellowed his song:
“Hey! I am here. I am alive! Now, now, now, now!
Don’t you get it? Send a letter to the prophets of fear and doom, take it down for me, word for word.
Send an e-mail. Write a text message. Post it on your blog. My manifesto.
Here goes: You may think me silly, and you may laugh at me,
or dismiss me, or roll your eyes. But I will not give you money,
or sell you pieces of my soul, or trade my peace of mind for greed and false promises,
or join in your chorus and drink the blood of the fearful and the innocent.
Here, at this moment, I am filled with magic, drunk on power, the brightest and most
beautiful and powerful thing in the world. And one day, the God Of Love will
sail down here on his chariot, trailing his sparkling angels, and blue-eyed cherubim,
and contrails of red and green and blue and yellow comet dust, and clouds
filled with fairies and prophets,
and he will roast your asses, and sting you cheeks,
and turn you to burnt toast.
Because he warned you, he told you that the world was filled with love,
and you filled it instead with money and lies and anger and fear.
Look at me. I’m here. I’m here! Now, now, now, now, now.”
bcc: The Sun. Yo, thanks.”
And how shall we speak of the morning?,
after a long night, of dreams and sweats and terror,
and what could be more comforting,
than to declare what the day holds for us?
For the day is a brand new and sweet thing.
It holds connection.
And a walk in the woods,
And a photo of a flower,
And the love of an animal,
And a hand to hold,
And something to create,
And something to want,
And a page in a book,
And a song on the Ipod,
And a hand to hold,
And a friend to see,
And a dinner to make,
with cauliflower and garlic.
And the long night will fold,
like a blanket, with the corners turned
and melt away, like the mist on the hill,
when the sun comes up,
and the light kisses the shadow,
and makes love to the night,
and puckers its lips so softly,
and blows it away.
The day is our poem.