Every morning, before I sit at my desk and plan the day’s work, I make myself a pot of coffee, eat breakfast and sit outside and take in the sounds of the farm. I hear the birds chirping. We have barn swallows, robins, crows and starlings. I miss the coo of the mourning dove; it hasn’t made an appearance in awhile. Our neighbour has a rooster that sings his cock-a-doodle-doos all through the day. There seems to be no rhyme nor reason to his cries.
I hear the tractors on the farm as they begin their day’s work; delivering feed to the cows is the top priority. I hear the moos of the cows in the maternity barn. This barn is a stone’s throw from my patio. I can tell when a cow is in labour; her moo is distinctive in its tone. I smile at the familiar sound of the milk truck as it makes its way to the dairy barn for its daily pick up.
Competing with these farm sounds is the traffic passing by our farm. Our once quiet road has become the main route for transport trucks heading to the highway. Cars and motorcycles add to the constant din that permeates the country air. It’s a noise that I try to ignore, yet cannot. Even from within the confines of my home, I cannot escape the constant sound of the tires against the pavement.
And yet, despite the noise and the encroachment of urban development, I would not trade my place with anyone. This is my home, my place of solitude, no matter what happens around me. I take comfort in knowing that the start to every day is unchanged. As long as the birds still chirp, the cows moo, and my cup of coffee is hot, all is right with my world.
