Ottawa Experimental Farm The farm in fall is a harvest of geese necks erect, offered for cropping. In winter a sculpture by wind, dunes of snow, sharp shadows a glass house banked in white,¬ guarding moist green, perfume of fertile earth. The farm is Victorian barns, Queen Anne house, remnant woodlot – pine, oak, ash – mulched by seasons of leaves. It was a patient teacher: this nut from this tree, with this name full moon up close in the Dominion Observatory slide of toboggans slippery climb holding Dad’s hand stroll after church through peony gardens art deco pool where brass frogs spat, pennies splashed. The farm is a blurred morning after, small hand in mine. My son breathes the scents of cows, covets their size. Rest for a drydocked barge, hostel for snowy owls and clustered cameras fox crossing the midnight road, a line of red fence posts sharpened like pencils.
© Jean Van Loon