Rain

This year starts in a swamp.
Ankle-deep in rain-water, and looking for the chest high waders.
Potting soil comes tomorrow, and that in itself is a milestone. A milestone like the creek rising over Sam's sandbar, or the ditch flowing over in Walnut. No, more significant than that. A mile much longer than that.
Never before have I bought a season's worth of potting soil all in one swoop. This year I've done just that, and before a single brassica has been dropped into a sterile soilless mix and sent its little radical bursting through its thirsty, soaked seed coat. Before the grass has started to green, before the first dandelion bllloms along the driveway. This stuff might get snowed on.
It comes tomorrow, delivered yet. Big truck, big order, big plans. I've got a space cleared out in the shed near Julie's, pallets at the ready. I've thought ahead. I've planned for everything except the standing water at the lower end of the farm. Everything except the torrent of water that fell from the skies in the middle of last night, trying, yes, but not quite succeeding in washing away my careful preparation.
I hope they bring a forklift.