When the temperature reaches almost 70 degrees in November, I try to hopelessly sink my teeth into the warm air and not let go. I know the days are coming when all of the leaves will dangle and release their last grip from the trees that have nurtured them throughout the year. Rather than mourn this loss, I’ll chose to celebrate and remember summer, my favorite time of the year. During lazy summer days, I often find time to revisit my rural haunts and rediscover them once again. It was a warm day in early July that I took this series of photos up on Whirlwind Hill in Wallingford. Having been here time and time again, I realized only small changes; pitchforks and shovels moved, fresh new hay piles piled into lofts and young calfs to meet for the first time. The little changes I can see make these havens a comfortable place to visit. Although they seem to stand still in time they beautifully reflect a natural pace of things. It isn’t until these farms disappear, that we realize that we often take them for granted. They play the role of timekeepers, year after year. Watching the fields grow through the season until the earth becomes cold and barren again is like having a clock remind us there is a time and place for everything. In a small town, the changing seasonal landscape brings vitality but also tells us when to hibernate and get the rest we need. Summer, you’re a long way off, but I’m happy for the time we had together.
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