Westerlies

He called them the westerlies. Winds blown in from the pacific, bringing spring change onto the farm. We lost three tents to the gale force ladies as they swept across the giant meadow that boarders our farm towards the sea. Those who lost their tents bonded immediately with their neighbors, asking to sleep on their floors and borrow extra blankets. Someone lit a fire in the library and those too cold to return to their solitary quarters piled onto the couches and surrounded the wood stove to start their assignments. As I stepped over bodies to cross the room, I had the realization that inside space is limited. It's become blatantly apparent that sharing space isn't an option here- there is no other choice.

After a day of biking up the hill to the garden, skimming cover crops, and protecting apples from codling moths, twenty or so of us are sitting around the tables in the farm center, a guitar strumming softly in the back ground, a mixture of cards and computers on the long wooden table. We don't yet know each-other's intimacies, but we're close by default. Brought together by a common love, and the cold westerly winds that leave no option- but to share.