A couple of days ago, while lying in my warm bed with flannel sheets, comforter, and a perfect quilt just as the light was changing, I was listening to the rain on our old tin roof and thinking just how perfect that moment was. As soon as I had the thought, our rogue rooster, Sport, started announcing his superiority from the cedar tree outside the window, then the bull that injured his hoof in the line of duty started bellowing from what sounded like kitchen. He wasn't, just in the catch pen behind the house. At that point, I knew I had to gather my reserve and slip my feet from under the warm covers and onto the cold floor of a house heated with wood. I had to stoke the fire. I had to break the ice on the water troughs, bottle feed a calf, release the chickens, and set out hay. I had to move, for day had arrived.
But for that one short moment, life was more perfect than any romantic farm ideal.