It is 2:30 a.m. and I’m sitting in the dark staring at the computer screen bathed in moonlight. The deck door is half way open. I can hear the James River roar its way toward the Chesapeake Bay: the sound of a hundred coal trains, down hill, Hell bent for the small, thin necked passage of Hampton Roads and finally into the Atlantic Ocean. Richmond’s flood stage is eleven feet and it should make eighteen and rising by morning.

     It is a warm wet January. Fifty five degrees or more for the high and thirty plus for the low is warm here. The snow, if it comes as snow, will not stay in the mountains: it will melt into the rivers. Tonight, Grandfather River is dressed as a chilled chocolate mousse, marshmallow topped, thick cold pudding, whipped to a froth by the narrows and boulders of Richmond causing class five rapids. The river is succulent and deadly. Kayaks and canoes stand on end ready to float their owners upon the soft creamy death that calls them all. Their masters, with bright red intent faces, clinched teeth, and strong arms, will battle the torrent, fighting with trees, snakes, and dead deer for the run of a lifetime. The river will get its yearly sacrifice of a boat or two and a virgin novice looking to increase his skills. There are always those who are willing to play and risk death in the same foul weather that keeps farmers and fisherman up all night.

     Five major rivers are spilling water into the bay tonight. It is too warm in the mountains for the apples to make and the sudden flow of cold winter water will cause the bay’s saline count to lower killing the young crabs. The thick silt will flow toward our already weakened oyster beds and bury them in the muddy rain water flush.

     Virginia’s apple orchards need just over thirty days below freezing to make a yield that is a good size, a clear red color, and not filled with worms. It takes a cold winter for the Shenandoah Mountains to produce apples that have that wonderful cracking sound accompanied by a mist of floating sugar water. The cold bite hurts your teeth and the mist falls on your face. Standing there in the field, you wipe and lick the syrup off, grin and take another bite.

     There is nothing quite so wonderful as picking apples off of a beautiful, fruit-laden tree and eating them right then and there. No wonder Adam and Eve had such a difficult time with that one. Even the horrible old witchie step- mother knew what to put the poison into so that Snow White would take a big bite without a second thought. Apples are Mother Nature’s summer Christmas ornaments in the orchards. In winter she places cardinals in the trees to take the place of the apples. The Pope of Rome surrounds himself with bright red human Cardinals to help him think important thoughts. Red: the color of passion, emotion, violence, caution, change, the eye of Taurus, and my toenails. Apples are wonderful, but not this year.

     This all sounds well and good, but tonight in the mountains, the orchard owners at the head waters of James River; and the oyster men and the crab house owners at the mouth of the river are all sitting in the light of a full silver moon, ringed with the crystal droplet promise of more rain. The men silently wonder about bank notes, rent, and food.

     I’m awake because the river called me to listen to the muse. If I sit here quietly, I can hear the farmers and the fisherman stare at their hands, drinking strong coffee, swigging corn mash, listening to weather band, and watching their children sleep. The wives on the mountain and the wives by the Chesapeake Bay are looking up at the ring around the same full moon; knowing more rain is on its way. I know for sure we are all up walking around tonight.

     Back in Texas, during the ‘50’s, I remember the night the ranchers stood on their screened-in back porches and watched the hail beat their grain to mash: then looking at their cattle and calculating slaughter versus purchasing grain for the winter. In a little while, the hail got so big, they lost some cattle. I remember the corn farmers not able to get their plows in the hard, black clay so they could plant the corn. So they would throw their gorgeous daughters into the back of the farm truck and make the Sunday trip to church. Somebody needed to pray for rain and I guess the corn farmers figured it just as well be their children. What with all the petticoats, hoops, and pageboy hair flying down County Line Road, the bed of the farm truck looked like it was filled with big scoops of assorted iced sherbet. When the girls would pile out of the truck, it was a medley of legs and rainbows of nylon net. There was not one boy, young or old, standing on the curb of that church that could think about Jesus or pray about the weather in the presence of all that finery. The girls always prayed for it to rain on any day but Sunday, because they hated holding down the tarp for the five miles into town during a Texas rain storm. Necessity and desire always increases temporary strength in prayer. On Monday or Tuesday, when the rain finally did come, the plows sank, pulling the tractors down to their fenders.

     Why does the two-legged human earth animal farm the sea and the land? There is a gene in the tinker-toy DNA chain that constantly nags, "Some of you guys better grow or fish for food: there are too many humans to stand around and wait for the ground to cough up something edible every time it is needed ." I can just see today’s working woman with finger nails from the Vietnamese nail shop digging a timely turnip root from a hard unyielding earth like some Aborigines Bushman or Scarlett O’Hara. So, Homo-Sapiens farm the land and the sea. The next time you see a farmer or a fisherman, stop to say thank you and wish them good crop weather. It may not be the weather that you particularly would want, but your good faith prayers just might fill your cornucopia with red apples, steamed crabs, corn pudding, and oyster stew next winter.