Sunset Farm, Narragansett, RI – May 4
I didnāt come here looking for a revelation.
I came for a bird.
A Brown-headed Cowbird, to be exact.
Now, if youāve read anything Iāve written, you already know this is a dangerous starting point. Because nothing in nature ever stays contained. You go looking for one thingā¦ and the entire world politely rearranges your agenda.
Itās May 4.
Which, in Narragansett, means one thing:
Expectation has officially outpaced reality.
No tomatoes.
No corn.
No baskets overflowing with color.
Just fields.
Honest, patient, not-yet-ready fields.
But something else was immediately clear.
There was movement.
Purposeful movement.
No one standing around scrolling a phone.
No idle conversations drifting into nowhere.
No ākilling time.ā
There was too much work to do.
And everyone knew it.
Iāve heard it said that a paint job is 90% prep and 10% painting.
Standing there, watching the rhythm of this place, I realized farming might be even more extreme.
Because all of thisā
The soil turning.
The planning.
The maintenance.
The timing.
The repetitive, unglamorous laborā
Is simply preparing for two things you donāt control:
Sunā¦ and water.
I pulled in, camera ready, scanning for my feathered target.
Instead, I was greetedāno, welcomedāby Jeff and Susan Farrell.
Not a casual āhello.ā
A genuine, glad you came kind of welcome.
They saw the cameras.
“Birds?”
“You here for birds?”
We talked about birds, the land, and what was happening around the farm.
Then Jeff said something that, in most environments, would require legal paperwork and possibly a liability waiver.
āGo on down to the fields. The cattle are out. Iāll show you how to open the fence.ā
Now, letās pause there.
Because there are two kinds of fences in life:
- The kind meant to keep you out
- The kind that assumes youāll behave if let in
This oneā¦ had electricity.
Jeff explained it simply.
Lift here.
Step through.
Donāt touch that unless you enjoy a memorable experience.
Then he added, almost casually:
āIf one of the cows walks up to you real close, just give āem a scratch on the head. All she wants is a little affection.ā
He paused.
āThe ones that donātā¦ will avoid you.ā
Comforting.
In a deeply conditional sort of way.
I made my way down into the field carrying enough camera equipment to ensure I could neither flee quickly nor maintain dignity if things went sideways.
And then I noticed them.
All of them.
The cows, heifers, and steers stopped what they were doing simultaneously.
Walking.
Chewing.
Scratching.
Every head turned toward me at once.
It felt less like entering a pastureā¦
ā¦and more like I had accidentally crashed a private party.
The look was unmistakable.
āWaitā¦ whoās he?ā
āAnd what exactly is he doing here?ā
Now, let me clarify something.
These are not squirrels.
These are very large animals.
Large enough that when several of them stare at you in complete silence, your confidence begins leaking out of your body at an alarming rate.
I set up my tripod.
Dead stares.
No emotion.
No blinking.
No acknowledgment whatsoever that I was trying very hard to appear non-threatening.
Iāve never lived in a city.
But standing there in that field, surrounded by several thousand collective pounds of muscle and suspicionā¦
I felt like a complete city-boy.
And honestly?
The staring didnāt bother me.
For the first five minutes.
Then my mind started wandering into less productive territory.
Specifically:
āWhat exactly is the tell that cattle are about to charge?ā
I searched my memory.
Nothing.
No dice.
Apparently, I had spent my entire life learning absolutely nothing useful about emergency bovine diplomacy.
So I made what I felt was the safest decision.
Ignore them.
Concentrate on the bird.
Back to the mission.
The Brown-headed Cowbird.
Small.
Dark.
Perched exactly where I wanted him.
I started composing shots.
Breathing easier.
Settling in.
And thenā¦
Thereās always one.
One member of the herd detached herself from the group and started advancing toward my position.
Now, Iāve seen walking.
Iāve seen strolling.
Iāve even seen what I would classify as determined movement.
But this?
This was meandering.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Suspiciously casual.
Like someone pretending theyāre not coming over specifically to investigate you.
She closed the distance.
Thirty feet.
Twenty-five.
Twenty.
At this point, I was mentally reviewing Jeffās advice with the intensity of a man studying for a final exam.
āScratch her on the head.ā
Right.
Of course.
Perfectly normal sentence.
Then, about fifteen feet from me, she stopped.
We locked eyes.
Neither of us entirely convinced about the other.
And then she did something I have never seen before.
Instead of turning aroundā¦
She started walking backwards.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Keeping her eyes on me the entire time.
Now I donāt know much about cattle behavior.
But I know surveillance when I see it.
And somehow, that backward walk felt more intimidating than if she had charged.
Because it suggested thought.
Strategy.
A coordinated security operation.
Eventually, she rejoined the others, apparently satisfied that I was neither predator nor particularly competent.
And honestly?
Fair assessment.
So I returned to the reason I was there.
The bird.
Still perched.
Still indifferent.
Still unconcerned with the existential livestock negotiations unfolding beneath him.
And standing there, camera in hand, surrounded by open fields, electric fence, suspicious cattle, and a farm quietly preparing for a season not yet visibleā¦
It hit me.
This place isnāt trying to impress you.
Itās not curated.
Itās not staged.
Itās simply real.
Right now, in early May, Sunset Farm isnāt selling abundance.
Itās building it.
Preparing soil.
Repairing fences.
Moving with purpose.
Trusting that if the work is done correctlyā¦
The sun and water will do their thing.
Maybe thatās the lesson.
Not bigger.
Not faster.
Not polished.
Just honest work performed in faith long before the results arrive.
I carefully negotiated the electrified fence on my way back like a man who had learned just enough to be cautious, but not enough to be confident.
Which, if weāre being honest, is exactly where I like to live.
I said my thanks.
Another real exchange.
No transaction.
No expectation.
Just appreciation.
I didnāt leave with produce.
I left with something better.
A reminder that most of what matters happens long before anyone sees the result.
And somewhere behind me, in a field that looked like nothing was happeningā¦
Everything was.
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