Winter rains finally cease
and morning broke
with azure sky and silver lining clouds
the color of young lambs’ wool.
Aromas of soaked earth
dank manure
the tang of blood and mineral
fill the nose,
awakening the senses
to the reality of farm life.
One Shot John
a master artisan
of mobile slaughter
the last of his kind
true to his moniker
laid to rest
the 216 pound pig
a mix of Berkshire, Duroc and Red Wattle
quickly, cleanly, humanely
without instilling terror of transport
from her land.
The rifle’s pop
ricocheted through bosomy hills
scattering the blackbirds
to escort her energy
to the heavens,
sending shivers of gratitude
and remorse
through my being.
With a silent nod,
quick dispatch and little fanfare,
she was washed
shaved
and eviscerated;
the heart and kidneys to be pan-fried
the liver made into pâté
by hands more talented than my own,
never a morsel wasted.
Knives sharpened
towels cleaned
table scrubbed
spices gathered and toasted
grinder and casings at the ready,
the butchery begins in two days time
a macabre ritual
of life
and death
and sustenance.
#farming #pig #food
(at Hudson Vineyards)