Wind in the Rafters, Mischief in the Goats, and Seeds in the Soil
The wind woke me before the sun.
It rattled the eaves and creaked the porch swing just enough to sound like footsteps—always a little unsettling until I remember this old place sings in the wind like a ship at sea.
I laid there for a minute, listening to it whistle through the cedar grove and flap the feed tarp outside the barn. April has arrived not with a whisper, but with a full-throated, dust-swirling shout.
There’s something fitting about that.
A Month Begins in Motion
It feels like a clean page in the ledger—muddy boots and cracked hands and all.
This morning, I brewed coffee, wrapped my shawl tight, and stepped out onto the porch to greet April face-first. The wind tried to steal my cup. The hens barely ventured out of the coop. The goats stood inside their shelter glaring out like royalty denied their sunshine.
Welcome to spring in Oklahoma.
Goat Shenanigans (Of Course)
I should’ve known better than to trust that “glare” was surrender.
By mid-morning, the wind had knocked loose a piece of the panel fencing by the south pasture—the one I meant to reinforce last weekend. Maple found it, naturally. I caught her mid-sprint, ears back and hooves pounding the wet clay, with Rosemary halfheartedly following behind.
They made it all of ten feet into the tall grass before I waved a cracked feed bucket and bribed them back with alfalfa pellets. Maple snorted like I’d insulted her, but she trotted back in just the same.
Moral of the story: reinforce the fence before the wind points it out for you.
I fixed the panel with three fresh zip ties and a section of baling twine. Not elegant, but it’ll hold until I can replace the join properly.
Goats are humbling creatures. Also: hilarious.
Seed Trays and April Faith
I spent the afternoon indoors, working by the south-facing window where the sunlight, even filtered through wind-shaken panes, warmed the kitchen table.
Today’s sowing:
- Cucumber (Marketmore and Lemon)
- Zucchini (Black Beauty)
- Yellow squash (Early Prolific)
- Basil, oregano, and thyme
- A tray of sunflowers, just for joy
As I pressed each seed into the soft, damp mix, I thought about all the ways we sow without knowing—tiny acts of care, of labor, of trust in what we cannot yet see.
Starting seeds in April is both ordinary and sacred. You do it because you believe something good is coming. You do it knowing some won’t sprout, and others will thrive, and a few may surprise you by blooming months later, after you’ve forgotten you ever planted them.
Faith and farming—they aren’t so different.
A Visit from the Wind
Around 3 p.m., the wind picked up again—hard enough to slam the garden gate and scatter the straw I’d laid over the potato rows.
I re-staked the cover cloth, added a few rocks to weigh it down, and gave up trying to tidy anything. Instead, I just stood in it for a while, letting the wind push through me, like it had something to say.
I think it did.
Something about change. About breath. About moving forward even when you’re unsure where you’re going.
Or maybe it just wanted to play.
Supper and Stillness
Tonight’s dinner was simple and earthy:
- Roasted potatoes and sweet onions
- Kale sautéed with garlic and lemon
- A soft-boiled egg nestled on top
- Fresh sourdough, warmed and buttered
I ate by candlelight, not because the power was out (though I half-expected it to flicker with that wind), but because it felt like the right way to greet a new month—with intention and quiet.
Hazel’s chicks are still tucked in tight, Margie hasn’t moved a muscle from her broody perch, and the rest of the hens have finally stopped complaining about the wind.
The goats are snoring. I swear it.
Final Thoughts
April was messy. Loud. Silly. Sacred.
It was everything I love about this life: the dance between chaos and care, the rhythm of surprise, the slow, steady trust in seeds and seasons and the work of my hands.
Tomorrow will likely bring more wind. More chores. Maybe even more escape artist antics. But for now, I’m content to close the day with dirt under my nails, seeds on the sill, and a heart full of possibility.
Because if nothing else, homesteading teaches you this:
Every month starts with a whisper or a bang—but either way, it starts.
And that’s all we need.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek