They’re anarchists, pacifists, disciples

of Krishnamurti; vegan farmers, who built a house

of stone, toiling in the quietness of routine labor,

bartering blueberries and maple syrup for whatever

they can’t grow.

A piebald raptor is perched high in a tree

chirping and piping, swooping down

snatching fleeing varmints on the ground.

Guardian of the farm the bird seems to sense

the folks below tend the earth with mindful care.

Organic tillers of the soil, they pick potato beetles

off their crop to feed them to the chickens.

She grinds flour to bake a daily bread. He harvests

the woodlot for the winter ahead; evenings, a sip

of home-made wine before curling up in bed.

In the amber sun of light-filled leaves they rest

in wordless grace intimately linked, one bone, one flesh,

safely covered in rainbow-hued spun-silk, living a life

free of toxic fumes and human greed.

Growing old they kiss and hug each time they part

in case they never meet again.

Seasoned Tai Chi practitioners, supple spines bend,

lithe as green branches swaying in the wind.