Sorting cows on Christmas

Later, after the sky has changed

from silver 

with a rim of pink

lacing the Ruby Mountains

to a pale airy blue,

we shuffle from pajamas

into jeans and carhartts

and leave the warmth 

of the wood stove for the cold

bluegold of the day.  We sort

the three oldest calves 

into a new pen, leave them

with a bit of grain to ease

the transition.  They watch us

from behind long frosted lashes,

as we leave them 

to their new home.

For me, the day that follows

Christmas morning has never looked

quite like this.  As a child

my family went skiing after presents,

or my sister and i began to pack

for our cross-country flight

the next morning to visit our dad.

I still feel somewhat unaccustomed to

the life of a farmer, the serious

need of the animals waiting for you.

The responsibility of taking 

good care.  I am even less prepared

for my own willingness to trade in

my perceptions of what a perfect holiday

should look like, to walk through cold

sunny fields to do the work of a rancher

on Christmas.  But I am willing, and I 

continue to be surprised by my ability

to stretch 

and become someone

I never knew I could be. 

This  year I was very aware

of the fluidity of tradition.  

Most of our Christmas storage bins

stayed unopened in the basement.

Instead, simplicity.  Fewer decorations,

few gifts, less stuff.  More time

and space for the meaningful

bits of our days, the elemental.

Wood for warmth, candles for light,

meals grown and raised

entirely on our own land.

And I keep waiting for the let down,

the post-holiday low after 

so much anticipation.

But I'm starting to realize

it's not coming this year.

That I am ready to move forward

into the new year, into the heart 

of winter, with a new kind of trust

in the rightness of my days.