This is my homeland. The border of Maryland and Pennsylvania. The Mason Dixon line. The boundary between the North and South, which unfortunately remains in many ways. The bedrock does not care about the spatial position of states, the positions of humans. It goes on, much in its own way. The soils are however more sensitive to our ways, eroding into rivers, accepting and rejected what we spray, toss and plow into the land of good tilth, endlessly provisioning, recycling, churning the crust of the Earth. This farm is in the Conestoga Valley, Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Back and forth to school, everyday for 7 years, I drove by this farm, across this land. Route 222. Amish Country. Its an ancient seafloor comprised of micaceous and graphitic limestone, hundreds of feet thick, covered by a thin film of alfalfa. Beneath it lies world upon world upon world. This is Late Cambrian material. Deep history. We are but a spark in its existence. An agricultural flashpoint. We can only hope to bear the fruits of its inertia. Farm. Farm well.