I am sitting in the shadow of a wise old presence. Today has ended much better than it began. The wise old presence knew all along that it would.

Today started rough. Actually, it started terrible. The milking facility had not been washed correctly the night before, so my day began with dirt and filth. I powered through the morning routine with two college interns in tow. My greatest challenge — attempting to stay positive and convey a sense of inspiration to the two young women. I yearned for my melancholy to not rub off on them, and did my best to stay positive. It had rained the night before. Mud and filth everywhere. Our boots squished, splattered, and slipped.

A routine veterinary exam proved disastrous before it even began. A pregnant cow had suffered a miscarriage in the maternity pen. There was a nearly full-term dead calf in the pen. I chalked it up to “These things happen.”

The veterinarian began the examination. I explained to the interns what we were doing, and why. They appeared interested and receptive, which provided me with a much-needed dose of purpose. I proceeded with my optimism, even as the examination turned out negative results and the morning continued its free-fall.

Two heifers were in the process of losing their pregnancies. Three miscarriages in one day. Three totally unrelated and freak occurrences, all colliding and conspiring into one demoralizing morning — this morning. Still, I stayed positive. I furled my brow and chalked it all up to “These things happen.”

Next, a pedicure. We had a foot injury to address. Poor Curley — she is a health trainwreck of a cow; frail and diminutive from a bout with pneumonia. Her eyes bulge out the side of her head, but point in opposite directions. At some point, Curley lost some teeth. Underbite. Cross-eyed. Now toothless and lame. Curley has needed all the help she could get, so my cousin Paul befriended her. Thus, Paul and Curley developed a mutually supportive relationship, where he provided her with love and extra care, while she became an extension of his identity and purpose on the farm.

The veterinarian confirms my outlook. Curley is too far gone to help any more. She will not survive another month. I tried to stay positive — these things happen! Except, now I have to tell Paul that his friend won’t be around much longer. Thinking about that conversation fills me with dread.

The veterinarian moves on to his next appointment and the interns head home, plunging the farm into a state of loneliness. I load the miscarried calf into a utility vehicle. There is a spot near a section of wildlife set-aside I take them. When a calf is born dead, or dies, or is killed by its mother (which happens more often than you’d think), I need to dispose of the carcass. These things happen. The spot is near where the coyotes live, and a carcass rarely lies for more than a day before they take it. This is the worst part of my job, but I do appreciate the symbiotic relationship I seem to have nurtured with the coyotes. They leave the farm alone.

I stop at my mailbox. There are two days’ worth of mail stuffed inside. There are only bills. Since it is the second week of the month, there are a lot of bills. I cannot pay a single one of them until next week. Tomorrow morning I will pay the interns and send them off to college with checks, dated for next week. Still, they show up. Still, they demonstrate that they believe in what we are doing, even though it clearly does not pay. This keeps me going.

I make my way outside to my balcony, which overlooks a very different view. I now find myself sitting in the shadow of a wise old presence. I feel depressed. For a brief moment I summarize the last ten years of my life. First Dad passed, then Mom. For the past six years, our farm has been at break-even prices. We were among the fortunate ones. We lost only money. Other farms folded and sold out, those dairy cows destined to be absorbed into the system as nameless, faceless cogs. Numbers, rather than personalities. No wonder farming is killing farmers.

I shift my attention away from the past ten years, and away from the future, and instead focus on the scene that is playing out before my eyes, ears, and nose. Directly in front of my balcony are two great sugar maples. They are heritage trees, stately and reliable. Beyond the maples are two old oak trees. They stare back at me.

I hear a cicada wind down from the crescendo of its song. Another cicada answers. The wind rustles the leaves in the trees. The leaves dance. I inhale, bringing all of the sights, sounds, perceptions, and smells into one great, lasting breath. I gain strength from the purity of the air. A monarch butterfly flutters across the scene, and I am grateful that we are able to share this moment.

There is a birdhouse on the corner of the smokehouse. A wren has built a nest, and is darting back and forth in search of food. The wren alights every once in awhile on a maple branch to scold me.

I love this scene, which is filled with all good things. As this day draws to a close, the setting sun hits the oaks at different angles, revealing a multitude of personality. Different birds, insects, and wildlife chime in. Stoic and enduring, the sugar maples tower above. I marvel at the peace, tranquility, and underlying strength that I gain whenever I sit in the shadow of this presence, and I am shocked to realize how disconnected we have become.

As I stare back at the oaks, I whisper for them to remember me.

— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://www.farmforthought.org.