It’s cold, and wet, and the duram can’t be harvested.

That ancient New Holland of Mike’s got stuck in the mud, took me forever to get it out.

The barley barely took.

Joan and Harry down the road just had TB, bye bye all those lovely Belgian blues.

But there’s always spring time, before fly strike hits, after the mud, when there’s new lambs and calves and piglets and the sun shines, or at least, occasionally peaks out from behind the clouds, smiling down on us as we bask in its light.

There’s always springtime.