
Holds the yard, mostly from a sitting position. Takes the job seriously; the birds do not.
On the beds this month
Everything here was photographed on the farm, this season. If it is on this page it is standing in the ground or on a bench right now.








The nursery
Grown on our own compost, potted in whatever the farm had spare. Nothing bought in to resell.






Who lives here
Some were brought. Some arrived on their own and stayed.

Holds the yard, mostly from a sitting position. Takes the job seriously; the birds do not.

Supervises everything, contributes nothing, is loved anyway. Once a day the birds are allowed to pull a prank on him.

Days of sunshine, flowers, pasture, worms, butterflies and mud baths. They live their best lives, and the eggs come out golden because of it.

Into the water the moment it can stand. Nobody teaches them this.

Runs the firm from the top of the woodpile. Announces the day whether or not anyone asked, and has never once been wrong about the time.

Hatched here, from our own birds. In four months it joins the flock and starts paying rent.

Two daughters first, then two sons. The ears arrive before she does, and she comes up to be scratched whether or not you offered.

Up and walking within the day. The goats clear what nothing else will eat, and what comes out the other end goes straight on the beds — which is the only rent anyone asks of them.

One of the first two. Cream where her mother is spotted, and already eating things nothing else on the farm will touch.

The milk in the shop comes from here. Fed on the farm, milked on the farm, and nothing added on the way out.

A stray found this corner comforting in the middle of the jungle and had them here, early on. They arrived the way the rest of it did — on their own, from nothing.
Around the farm





