Farming is an unending procession of work. Little of our work on this farm is mechanized. Our horses are our tractors and we pitch manure one fork at a time. While chores are extended, it affords us the solitude to eavesdrop on the life around us. A House Wren boldly churrs and scolds intruders near her favorite brush pile. A Blue Jay, attempting to mimic the Red Tailed Hawk, produces an emaciated scream, fooling no one save the sparrows. A cow lows in the bottomlands. Horses on lush pasture munch contentedly. A favorite sound. The song of grazing.

Occasionally, I can indulge this guilty pleasure, sitting on the grass next to my picketed stud. As he grazes the grass I’d rather not mow, I can enjoy the balance of the time saved. Grazing is a primitive rhythm in the orchestra of the farm. A few bites to crop the dense sod, masticated before he gleans the next cowlick of orchard grass. Pick, pick. Chew. Pick. Chew, chew; chew… Step. Occasionally, the tempo is punctuated by a sigh in his breathing. The gurgle of fermentation in his gut. I sit quietly next to him; a cadence as meditative as a metronome encourages my own mental ruminations.

Primeval. The calm that envelopes me. Is it an unconscious memory of the womb? Is it some genetic recollection from our agrarian ancestors, who much preferred tending to the sedated flock than for the thrill of the chase? Whatever the reason, the lullaby escapes many. I have not heard the pop song that celebrates the choir of grazers. Authors pen few words for future generations to contemplate.

“Much is made of bonds between man and animals, horses, dogs. But (milking by hand) is beyond that. The milk stool is set just so and the forehead is put into the soft warm spot where the cow’s gut meets her back leg so that the stomach rumbles and gurgles as part of the person’s thinking, breathing, low sounds and the hands work in a rhythm perhaps as old as all rhythms…”–Gary Paulsen, Clabbered Dirt, Sweet Grass

Perhaps this is because the harmony of grazing is best experienced in vivo. Go when you have an abundance of time or better yet, can submit yourself to manual labor. You will miss it if you are hurried by the pace of modern life. You will be distracted if you carry a cell phone. You can’t hear it if you are feeding with a tractor. You might be too busy to linger when the alfalfa is growing fast and near flowering. However, I suspect if you listen attentively to the gurglings of their rumination, it will calm the churning of your own mind.