4:30 struck as the dewey sun crawled slowly across the remote mountain ridges.
Little Margaret awoke with a violent stumble, fumbling for her rain boots and trousers blindly while the faint crackling howl of the rooster could be heard off in the distance. After clumsily jumping out of her nightgown and into her tired, oversized flannel, whose buttons were all either loose or missing, Margaret shot a quick glance out the window toward the large expanse of land and focused her eyes gently on the towering maroon structure a couple miles from her doorstep.
Gazing up and down at the never-ending stream of fencing winding along the hillside, she brought her attention to the newly grown squash and cabbage heads that quietly took refuge beneath her window. She let out a low, grumbling yawn and swooped up her tattered woven basket in both hands.
Glancing again out the window and bringing her eyes to the soil bursting with life, she knew that this was the beginning, that just as these roots sprung to life from dark places, so she would crawl out of the covers of her bed and tend to the countless tasks the day brought; this was her humble life on the farm.