Windblown the mind

Wind, wind,wind -and some snow. The snow is inside my boots and the wind inside my mind. The wind is not a functional issue – my heavy old machines will not blow off the trailer on the short transit from workshop to farm, and the snow that covered everything two days ago turning to skiddy slush yesterday, has been driven off by these south-westerlies, but it dominates the day. From a half acknowledged companion to the daily chores, it becomes an oppressive tyrant. All actions need managing, even walking becomes a considered exercise, opening doors demands care, secure stowing bins or feeder bags or clothing is essential. My fundamental security, that of a weathertight home, is challenged by this raging violence.
For the cattle it is more direct. The youngest and the oldest are able to retreat into sheds, Angus Halhorn and his two ladies have a roofed shelter, but Billy, Abbie, Holly and the stotts have none. They gather outside the yard, bellowing disconsolately at intervals but motly just standing and dripping, their hunched rears to the weather. I wish they would find their way down to the wood where the high banks would provide some relief from the wind if not the wet, but they are determined to remain close to the feed shed in the hope of some solace at my hands.
Perhaps then they know that endurance is as much a quality of mind as of physical safeguards. The wind works on them too, whirling and battering and questioning.


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