Winter Solstice

We stand in queue, waiting for hot scones in the cool night air. Under the lights of the tent, the baker kneads the dough, pushing down with the heels of her palms, dropping her fingertips to pull the edge of the dough back to lift it, then pick it up to put it down again before pushing down with the heels of her palms, again. There are two small children standing in front of her station. They are shifting their weight from foot to foot, their hands holding their arms behind their backs, and they are watching her. She rolls the dough out, cuts rounds, and arranges them on a baking stone that she places in the cob oven behind her. The word goes out that it won’t be long now, only twenty minutes longer and then there will be scones, hot scones with thick cream and jam. So we continue to wait. There is a sprite leaping hither and thither, playing songs on his flute, and he has charmed a tiny girl who is beaming at him. And there is another girl, someone I know from a dance class and we are chatting about this and that and it is pleasant to wait where everyone is happy to wait. There is other music besides the sprite’s and there are other conversations besides mine and there is other laughter besides the tiny girl’s and all of it exists because of the farm and because of the solstice celebration that the farm is hosting.