“There’s a blue heron in So-and-So’s slough,” we’d heard, so we slowed down as we drove past. But the heron, which would stand in the water just a few feet from the road as long as vehicles didn’t reduce their speed too much, wasn’t standing still for a photo. It wouldn’t let us get close.

10 a.m. Still groggy, eyes half closed. Coffee bitter, since Loverboy made it almost three hours ago.

At 7:30 he woke me up. He was going to do some work at the home of friends, did I want to go with? No.

He went away for a few minutes, came back, woke me again. Now did I want to go with?

Petra and I had sat up till 2 on Thursday night, after watching Far From Heaven. I’d gotten to sleep around three, and he’d woken me at 7:30 when he went out for breakfast with his son. I never did get back to sleep, but lay there in bed for a couple more hours and spent the rest of the day feeling faded and old.

We got home around suppertime yesterday, less two kids but with the addition of two new lamps, and he went out to do chores (“Put your boots on and come help,” he said. “No!” said I) while I read the 24-hour buildup of posts from my favourite discussion list. Then I headed for the bedroom to lay down and thought no, it’s too gorgeous out, I’m going for a walk instead. I met L coming with the tractor and he stopped and opened the door so I could clamber aboard, squeezing myself between the seat and the wall of the cab.

Out to ‘the hill’ we went to spear a round bale with the loader forks, and then back through the yard and out to the pasture behind the barn. We got five or six inches of snow on Wednesday night and it melted almost immediately, so the corrals were soaking wet and the cattle have been moved to drier ground.

Now loud noises make me nervous at the best of times, and L had already been cursing at the gear shifts, which were giving him grief. But after his brother let us through the gate, the tractor got bogged down in some deep mud and L had quite a struggle getting it out. At one point it seemed we were going to tip over on our side, and the loud and angry cursing combined with the tilt and the possibility of having to jump out into two feet of black mush made me sorry I’d come along.

By the time we were out and on our way back for another bale, I was craving the silent solitude of the gravel road I’d originally been headed for, and asked L to drop me off on his way by.

“What, was that so bad? You don’t want to be with me?”

“Well ... being with you hasn’t been particularly pleasant so far, and I did come out to partake of the beautiful evening. I’m after the walk and the peace.”

“One more bale, and I’ll come with you.”

“I don’t think I can survive another trip through that bog.”

“We won’t go that way.”

The second bale was to go into a drier corral next to the barn, and had to be lifted up over the fence and dropped into a metal feeder. The cows and calves were gathered around, hungry, and the honking of the tractor’s little horn was ineffectual. I hopped out of the tractor and up on the side of the fence. “Shoo, shoo!” I yelled, waving my arms, and they showed me the whites of their eyes and stayed put.

One cow had her head right inside the feeder so it was impossible to drop the bale in without injuring her. I’d have to go in and scare her back, but it wouldn’t be unthinkable for one of them to rush me — a half-unfamiliar entity — to protect her calf. I jumped off the fence and picked up a thin rail from the ground. I’d have to go in, if only to save face; it’s no secret that I’m a chickenshit, but hey, there was a job to be done. I’d go in armed.

I swung my leg up over the top railing, fully aware that the little stick in my hand wouldn’t make much difference if a cow rushed me. It was unlikely that a cow would take me on, but I was nervous anyway. It happened to L just the other day. Still, they’d likely back up as soon as I was on the ground, I’d climb out of the cowshit, and that would be that.

But when I turned to look where to put my foot next, I saw she’d already pulled her head out of the feeder’s perimeter and there was no need to go further. So much for my close encounter of the turd kind.

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Saskatchewan’s green-on-white license plates say “Land of Living Skies.” It’s no empty boast. The skies are literally alive with birds, and have been for several weeks. First I noticed the crows and magpies, and now the geese have come. You hear their constant cacophany for 20 minutes before they fly overhead in waves of Vs. They are flying over fields beyond your own vision, and they are looking for one to land in, because it’s time for supper and they need some grain to pilfer. No matter how many times you’ve seen them, you can’t help but stop and watch, struck by the majesty of their sky-filling formations.

Beautiful. Spiritfeedingly beautiful.

The mallard ducks are here too, but I’ve seen them less frequently so far. It’s the snow geese I’ve been waiting for. They’re the ones that come in flocks of thousands, and turn a tawny gold stubblefield white. When you stop your vehicle on the road and get out, they do not visibly react. And when you walk down through the ditch, it almost seems they aren’t the least bit worried. But when you begin to stride in their direction, suddenly they lift off the ground as one dark frenzy of air and soundstopping noise. It is no less than awesome to watch them take to the skies en masse from this vantage point. I feel a little guilty for disturbing them, but when I see a flock close enough to the road, I can’t help myself.

I remember carrying my niece, Loie, into the field with me when she was about two years old. Saw her this weekend for a moment, too. When we left the boys with Dave in North Battleford, he asked me to deliver a couple CDs he’d burnt for her, so we dropped them off at the restaurant in Saskatoon where she is employed. She was talking and smiling with her co-workers just behind the cashier’s counter inside the door. I noticed a recent addition to her face: a tiny diamond wedged into the side of her nose.

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Last night Loverboy and I went for a walk past the creek, me in my black rubber boots, he in his running shoes. The frogs are awake and this was my first concert this year. Delighted ears approached the water — the creek runs into a large slough — and I snatched excitedly at L’s arm: “Listen, the frogs are here!” It is a sound I cannot get enough of. Our approach silenced them, unfortunately, and we did not feel like being still while they overcame their shyness. We walked happily on. They’ll be around for a few days, and the weather has warmed up again. I’ll make a wholehearted attempt to get my fill.

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A few days ago, walking on the driveway between the two houses, I got a distinct whiff of last fall.