Wild Pastures

On a June morning the narrator leads listeners into a New England pasture, where stone fences and short, neat grass lie under a gold‑kissed sky. From the old homestead’s yard, past a weather‑worn barn, he follows two lanes—one a tidy, lawn‑like walk, the other a tangled corridor of birch, cedar and wild grapes. The air is scented with rose, azalea and sassafras, while birds, a fox, and slow‑moving cattle shape the gentle rhythm of farm life.

The two paths become a quiet meditation on the edge of civilization; the neat lane offers the comfort of familiar fences and the soft hum of milking time, while the overgrown way hides blackberry thickets, restless foxes and the hidden music of muskrats. Vivid, lyrical observations celebrate the texture of the land—the snap of a bird’s beak, the rustle of woodbine, the sweet scent of wild grape—while hinting at the old struggle to tame the wilderness. Listeners are invited to linger in this pastoral tableau, feeling the pull of both cultivated garden and untamed woods just beyond the stone wall.