is ever at rest.

This orchard appears permanent.  Rooted.

But it’s not.


This mountain/hill that we snuggle back into creeps outward every year by two whole centimetres.  Did you see it move?  Last winter ice loosens and then lifts particles of dirt.  Debris.  And when the ice leaves and the earth settles these simply roll down the hill a bit more.

I’ve thought that it would be a worthwhile pursuit to sit and do nothing else but to watch this over the course of the winter some year.  Noticing something that no one else has ever really seen.

ICE-THRUST formation.  Source of wonderment.  This massive rock popped from of the understory and skidded twenty miles across this valley.  Shearing off everything.  Freezing soil and rocks and sand and clay into the plastic foot of the glacier that taunted it.  Rode it like the slowest plowhorse.  And dropped these when that mass of ice died.  Three kinds of soil on my mountainside plantation alone.  Some pelt me with rocks while others hold my feet fast.  I love every one.


micro. meso. macro.

A totally different reality for an orchardist than for weathergeeks.  These are the holy trinity of taste.  Micro – the restricted space of a few plants or rows and the canopy of management needed to appreciate – love? – these few plants, knowing what they are like as a family, and what this can mean to, say, a cask of wine make from their berries.  Meso – the greater good of the family of plants on this hillside, which is different than your hillside, and your family of plants.  Have you noticed their distinction?  Macro – my regional disruption, which is not your regional disruption.  Broader particularities.  But still particularities.

These are things only a natural-born orchardist can know.   Can see.  Can love.  Lost on the slack-jawed, Neanderthal hyena of mass production industrial agriculture…

But fog this morning.

A blanket of water.



I told you so…