I know a man who is designing a sailing cargo carrier
to take his rice down the Hudson to market in New York. He also bakes bread in his enormous wood-fired oven. Raises ducks in the paddies. Plays his accordion behind stacks of his lovely loaves at the farmers' market...when he can get there. He's so busy.
This is what creative farming looks like in Vermont.
Solar panels crop up like weeds. Wind towers sprout here and there. Gardens swell. Woodlots echo with the sound of axe and chainsaw. People get by. Most
people get by.
The weather wild and fractious. Blight crawling into my garden, blown on southern winds. The earth burning, burning.
Economic divides as insidious as oil rigs. Prejudice and hatred. Communities dividing. Individuals hunkering down. Falling apart.
And beyond, war and famine and this burning earth.
This burning earth.
I board airplanes to go to work. I turn away into my garden. I hound beauty with my camera.
I am a hypocrite.