Homestead

Do not bury my well again. It took me three weeks to excavate, and I do not have strapping sons of a peak age to do the work. Neither is disposable income a feature of my economic reality. Whatever purse is fetched by seasonal export goes right back into the ground. Add to that stark picture my distrust of hirelings. They stand around like lizards warming themselves on a rock waiting to be animated by the sun. A constant solar wince and fixed grin to indicate fatigue does not ensure the future of my enterprise. Kindness has become an additional expense. Patience beyond what has already been budgeted is a tax that will break my industry. Loneliness is an implied threat. Only in great numbers can you feel the peace of delegated responsibility and de-escalation. My arm goes around no understudy. One thermos for my singular thirst. One coat for my warmth, and one deed to my land. Don't make me bite. There are no protective layers of probing legal council, administrative outreach, or excessive signage. Bury my well again and the partition between domesticity and wilderness will tear from top to bottom. You are not familiar with the highest taxonomy of predators whose flesh is denim ending in snake skinned trotters. Afternoon prayers uttered in night vision goggles still reach God. I can draw a long gun to match the long distance it takes to arrive at your estate. There is no more rope for intrusion, just buckets of lime next to a bone saw. Anytime I put an end to criminal mischief, the stalks of corn come in fuller and taller. The black beans are so plump you don't need to put them in boiling water. I can double their price. Tomatoes turn into bowling balls. When you are by yourself, you must inhabit both shepard and scarecrow. My cattle are occupied by a salt lick. The dogs put their total concentration on rawhide. Do not become the thing that I can not stop thinking about.