On Franklin Hill Farm: Frozen in time

And in photographs

By Bettina Sperry

Listening to my cows, I stopped for a second. Continuing on, dried hoof prints and crevices remained in the frozen run.

There was no water, instead, inches-thick ice. Frozen and dry of life is what came to mind. Like ancient artifacts of times before, when horses roamed and drank freely from the water. That just didn’t exist here at the moment. The ice locked in their hoof prints, and I was looking backwards in time. I could see the paths these horses walked, trace their efforts to locate water.

I saw how well they understood the grounds they roamed and how persistent they were in their search for sustenance – a continuous path of broken ice along the length of the run.

    I looked for evidence of thinned ice under which water might exist. With the digging iron, I checked the pulse. In some places, nothing but lure and deception. Further along, a reflective sheen brought me to an oasis, and my digging surfaced a small pool of water. Opening the hole, I called the cows.

    This farm has never needed supplemental water, but I returned to the house, pulled the water hose out, and filled one of the few water troughs and water heaters remaining from the old farm.

Copyright © 2018 by Bettina Sperry