Today we had a big earthquake not too far from here in Mineral, Va. It was a whopper for Virginia, a 5.8—the largest quake in Virginia since another 5.8 in 1897. I was at work, sitting at my desk, staring at my computer when the filing cabinets began to walk across the floor.

And just now an aftershock came through as I’m at home, on my computer. The casings around my front door and windows creaked, unflappable Tuck cocked his head to the side and regarded the vibrating that seemed to fill even the air around us, and then it was over.

The thing that amazes me more than the earthquake is how fast everyone knew about it, around the world! It was listed on Wikipedia’s Virginia earthquakes page within minutes of occurring. Just now that 4.2 aftershock was posted on the USGS site and the data tweeted by the Capital Weather Gang within 17 minutes of the event. I can get every bit of geological post-game with a half-second online search, and if that’s too much for me to process, there’s always some humorously competent professor on NPR who’s happy to break it down for me.

And that’s just the scientific stuff, the islands in the swamp of sensationalist journalism that proffers such astute observations as:

A helicopter inspected the Washington Monument, and it was found to be structurally sound, the National Park Service said. The grounds were being reopened late Tuesday afternoon, but not the plaza and monument itself, where the interior was being inspected.

U.S. Park Police spokesman David Schlosser said to his eye, the monument was “clearly not leaning. It’s standing tall and proud.” via CNN

and

Christina Summers, a young mother who lives in New York City’s Greenwich Village, said she thought the shaking was caused by construction in a neighboring apartment.

“Holy cow! My couch was wiggling like those beds you put a quarter in,” Summers said. via Reuters

So much information, so fast. How far we’ve come from cowering before the power of angry, trident-wielding gods!

Or have we really? Now we just worship at electron altars—as the temples crumble around us.

While the sun was doing this off the front porch…

it was doing this off the back porch:

I never get bored here.

August 2 and I notice the first red leaves among the sumac at the edge of the field. My neighbor’s bringing hay, one round bale at a time in the back of a pickup, into their barn. Brown leaves drift and eddy around my car as I drive down the road. Fall’s on its way, and the extended heat wave and lack of rain are accelerating the process.

It wasn’t until I lived this close to a piece of land that I really noticed these changes, and how they creep so suddenly so fast. It’s August and I can still feel last winter’s chill in my body. Time to wisen up to the accelerating wheel and lay myself down on a hot rock by a river and let my belly get sunburned.

Last night’s full moon is nicknamed the Full Hay Moon.

Fitting, then, that I came home to find a neighboring farmer had cut the back pasture for hay. It made for great vole hunting for the pup this morning!

Who’s a big farm dog now? Tucker looks right at home in the hayfield—just like his greatgrandfather and greatgrandmother. Now if I only had some cows or sheep to complete the picture!

A massive storm rolled just south of the farm last Sunday. Though I didn’t get any rain, I was treated to a lighting and thunder show that seemed to go on for hours. It was the slowest-moving storm in memory. It gave me ample time to sit on the front porch and practice my lighting photography.

Around 8:30 p.m. the power went out, and I experienced my first extended outage since moving into my house. I lit a few candles and enjoyed the silent sound of my house, which I hadn’t heard since it was under construction and premechanized.

It wasn’t until the next day that I heard of the extensive damage just south of the farm. I consider myself fortunate to have dodged the storm—this time—and come through no worse for wear. My freezer didn’t even defrost a bit, and the power was out for 15 hours!

Where you can sit on the back porch and watch fireworks over the field.

Redneck neighbors are the best.

To the Southwestern sunsets I miss.

I recently discovered quite the blackberry thicket growing at the wood line. It’s funny—all last summer I searched the property for the berries I was sure had to be around and never found any. So I planted a bunch of berry bushes in the field and started my own patch. And then this year I stumble on the wild berries, which judging by the size of the patch must have been there all along. Joke’s on me.

In truth, though, they could have been easy to miss. They’re well-hidden in a mass of poison ivy, honeysuckle, and all matter of creeping, twining summer foliage. Wading in to collect the fruit feels like entering a murky pond. I gingerly place my feet, cringing when anything brushes my skin, anticipating the strike of a disturbed snake or a swarm of seed ticks.

The berries aren’t huge, and they’re seedy. But they’re tart/sweet and taste of wild vitamin C. I’ll be back every day while they last.

*This post is dedicated to the bear, with memories of a hot and dusty hedgerow and other small, red fruit.