January 9, 2009
I've been a farmer of black soil for most of my farming life. The new digs here in the Annapolis Valley has a very red soil and its taking some adjusting to. My foot prints through the wet snow look like a bloody trail and the river's softening ice is streaked with rusty hues. Most of the barns in the area mirror the red of the soil: stark bold patches in a misty grey and white landscape. Even in the winter my clothes have a red tinged dust to them and the washing machine empties out an amber liquid. Where the river empties out to the ocean it is a dramatic merge of rust and green. This drama of colour I take in and feel deep as mirror of the intense stirrings in the wider world beyond this small farm. On my footprints prayers for Gaza.