At first her thoughts are trapped
Then freed like a leaf from eddying currents
Thankful, it is summer, after the vacationers leave
She does not know where she will be going.
Young boys loiter in supermarkets
They are not sure what they are doing
Window shopping, people watching is their enriching
Adventure, color of freedom, trivial maybe,
She thinks when pigs escape from a corral
There is no call for immediate search
The farmer knows they will find their way back.
She knows the enchantments of a farm.
The week is long, can be stretched even longer
All the time to plan the itineraries.
what is in a name
“I love the French names for butterflies, compared to which many of the English names are a little unimaginative; for example the English orange tip is simply descriptive, while the French l’aurore-the dawn-is rather more poetic. What do we call speckled butterfly that lives in the wood? The speckled wood, of course, while to French it is le Tircis, named after a shepherd in a seventeenth-century fable by Jean de la Fontaine.”-Dave Goulson
note: taken from A Buzz in theMeadow, The Natural History of a French Farm by Dave Goulson