Beige and brown and tan and black, with horns spiraled or semicircular or in undulating waves, a legion of goats marched up the hill toward us, bleating in anticipation of fresh grass and leaves.

I was headed down Quenames Road in Chilmark, where neon pastures peak through a forest of scraggly oak and pine for a visit to Milkweed Farm, the little sandy fiefdom where Mallory Watts has recently begun to reap a yearly harvest. 

The present always holds a little something of the past, but nothing stays the same. Autumn and winter wipe away summer’s harvest as the year’s crops bear their fruit then wither. New calves are born and grown steer slaughtered.

I had come in search of melons and had no idea if I would find them.

She was the sickly one, a source of anguish in my heart, a fluffy little gray chick that seemed to have trouble supporting her own beak and keeping her eyes open.

In this time of summer hustle, as the harvest of high-season gardens abound, I find my mind often turning to the subject of manure.