Weather Whiplash, Goat Antics, and the Sacred Art of Letting Go
Oklahoma reminded me today—again—that she doesn’t answer to forecasts.
The morning was soft and golden, with sunlight dappling through the trees and a gentle breeze that smelled like clover and cedar. I stepped out with my coffee thinking, This is going to be a perfect workday.
By noon, the wind was howling, clouds were stacking like storm-bellied giants over the Ouachitas, and my hat had flown into the goat pen—twice.
By 3 p.m., we had sideways rain and lightning cracking close enough to shake the windows.
Spring here is less a season and more a series of personality shifts. You learn to roll with it. Or at least, you try.
Morning: Hopeful and Hands-On
I started the day full of purpose and momentum. After morning chores (Hazel and her brood are officially bold enough to sprint across the coop like toddlers after recess), I hauled my tools out and got to work on the chicken tractor.
I cut the frame boards, laid them out on the driveway, and pre-drilled all the connecting points. There’s something deeply satisfying about lining up good lumber, even if it's salvaged and mismatched. These pieces have history—some from an old shed, others from broken roosts—and now they’re becoming something new.
The bones of the tractor came together quick. Rectangle frame, 8 feet long by 4 feet wide. I added vertical supports, just tall enough to give the broilers space to move, then attached the base hardware cloth with a pneumatic stapler that’s been hanging on since my deck project two years ago.
It felt good to move with the rhythm of a build—measure, mark, cut, drill. Like I was creating order out of scraps, which is, let’s be honest, a pretty accurate summary of homesteading itself.
Noon: The Sky Shifts
I took a break for lunch—sourdough with goat cheese and fig jam, plus a few raw snap peas—and noticed the wind starting to turn.
Not hard, but heavy. Like it had something to say.
The clouds rolled in fast after that. I scrambled to move tools under cover, weighted down tarps, and rushed to get the chicken tractor frame into the barn before the rain hit.
Barely made it.
The storm hit with a wall of wind and sheets of rain that turned my freshly cleared pasture corner into a small lake. Thunder echoed off the hills like a drumbeat, and the goats—always the dramatists—acted like the world was ending. Maple climbed halfway into the feed bin before I chased her out.
Inside the barn, I stood next to the half-finished tractor, soaked to the knees, and laughed. Not because it was funny, exactly, but because it was so expected. Every time I plan too tightly, the weather comes to humble me.
Maybe that’s not a bad thing.
Afternoon: Waiting it Out
Once the worst passed, I pulled out a towel, dried off what I could, and made a pot of tea. I sat on an overturned bucket with the barn doors half-closed and watched the last of the rain fall like silver needles through the air.
Sometimes, I think storms aren’t just for the soil. They’re for us, too. A reminder to sit still. To wait. To notice.
While I sat there, I found myself thinking about last year’s storms—how a late April hailstorm took out my best tomato starts, and I cried in the greenhouse like a kid. Then I replanted. And you know what? The second batch grew even better.
Because sometimes what feels like a loss is just a delay.
Sometimes the land knows something we don’t.
Goat Drama, Always
Later, after the storm passed and the clouds broke into long, streaky pinks, I let the goats out for a graze. Maple and Rosemary made a beeline for the newly washed garden fence, certain I’d missed a spot. I hadn’t—but Maple did manage to push her head through the gate slats and get stuck.
Again.
I freed her with some tugging, a stern talking-to, and a handful of grain as a distraction. She gave me a look like What are you so worked up about? and trotted off without a second thought.
Goats are humbling. Goats are ridiculous. Goats are, somehow, always exactly what I need.
Supper and a Quiet Finish
Dinner tonight was cozy and simple:
- A thick slice of fried polenta with goat cheese and herbs
- Stewed collard greens with garlic and vinegar
- A hard-boiled egg from Hazel’s clutch (one she abandoned—I candled it yesterday, no growth)
I ate on the porch while the last of the sun painted golden lines across the pasture. The air smelled clean and bright. The frogs started up early tonight—like they were celebrating the puddles.
I sat there longer than usual, hands wrapped around my mug, just being still.
Because days like this remind me: you can make plans. You can build structures. You can plant seeds and stack your to-do list high. But the weather will come. The goat will get stuck. The rain will fall.
And sometimes the most faithful thing you can do is adjust.
Final Thoughts
Today didn’t go as planned. But maybe that’s what made it beautiful.
I got half a chicken tractor built, a good soak in the storm, a goat rescue, and a reminder that surrender isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom.
Tomorrow, if the ground’s not too wet, I’ll finish the frame, check the broccoli transplants, and start mapping out the compost tea station I’ve been dreaming about.
Or maybe I’ll get surprised again. That’s okay too.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek