91热爆

When I stand at my kitchen window, this is my view....there is the hutch me goose is currently nesting in, tethered doon against the gales and huddled up agin the stane byre wa`, which leans ower it protectively, gable ended and festooned each morning wi` starlings, sparrows and blackbirds. Then, ahind the fence, is a field that is flat and still grassed ower for the farmer tae put his kye intae sometime soon. And ahind that is another field which rises gently up, I call it a `hill` but nae doubt doon soothers would laugh at that, for it`s an awfu peedie slope, but for a` that it rises up tae meet the sky.
And it`s freshly ploughed, and tae yours truly that is a bonny sight tae see.
It always mak`s me think spring has finally decided tae visit Sanday tae see a ploughed field, the top grass taken off and the soil bared tae the sky so the sun can kiss it warm enough tae sow the seed for this years hay.
It`s a thing almost as old as mankind, that yearly baring o` the soil, and if ye could only peel back the years, ye could maybe see other folks peer oot their windows or stand at their croft doors and feel the warmth o` the early sunrise and get the intoxicating scent o` freshly turned soil in their nostrils and ken that the growing year has truly begun.
There is just something so simple, so clean, and somehow, right, in a freshly ploughed field. It mak`s my day tae see it there, dark against the green, wi` gulls and curlews whirling owerheid tae spy for insects and the remnants o` last years grain.
And this morning, a fine sea mist has rolled ower the isle, and crept up the track and is dancing aroond the ploughed field, but in among the clouded mists are wee shafts o` sunlight, weak but there. It`s a bonny day, richt enough.