The birds squawk loudly and peck at themselves nervously until we reach the end of Jim’s winding, bumpy gravel driveway. The squawking morphs into gurgles.
Finally they are quiet but standing alert as we head south on the Taconic to our “farm” in Nyack.
My husband and I give each other a look that says, “Is this really our life?”
Eighteen months later, we have some answers.
Check out photos here, and the full story in Feb. issue of Hudson Valley Magazine ("Foul Play," pg. 1).
