Cerulean sky with
wisps of white crisscrossing
a profound blue,
clouds created with lighthanded strokes
from a giant’s paintbrush.
We set off from the concrete slab
of the driveway, twin paths of gravel
leading the way towards the road.
The crunch of stones and leaves,
the cawing of crows,
the honking of geese,
and the jeering cry of a blue jay
accompany us at the start.
The Mystery Woods across the road
are showing few signs of autumn.
Leaves here and there float down,
gently landing on the road
as the breeze moves through the trees,
rustling the grasses growing
at the edge of the forest.
We turn onto the main road,
“main road” used loosely
since all the roads are back roads
and traffic is sparse,
and glide past a few houses,
a neighbor with a brown dog on a leash
standing at the end of his driveway
waiting for us to pass.
We wave, he waves, the dog barks.
Country morning greetings.
Entering farm country,
fields stretched out on either side.
The last time I came this way
the corn was high and dry,
ready to be harvested.
The harvest is done, the fields replanted,
wheat already several inches high.
A truck loaded with corn leaves
and stalks barrels by.
A smile and a wave from the farmer.
We wave and nod back.
The road is littered with scraps.
Corn stalks, husk, and silk,
kernels of corn, a cob here and there.
Monarch butterflies join us occasionally,
flying alongside of us until something
calls them to veer off elsewhere.
Maybe it’s my bright pink jacket
that attracts them.
Maybe they like our company
and want to see where we’re going.
Past the church in the shire.
That’s not really its name.
I call it that because of the way it sits
nestled in between farmland and woods.
Its a small wooden church
where the farmers gather on Sundays
to hear about their Lord and God,
to prove their Christianity
by nestling themselves in the pews
for an hour or so
to listen to the Good Word.
I imagine they exchange
good mornings, how are ya’s?
And reply that they’re all fine
on this pleasant day.
Through the wooded area
where suicidal squirrels insist
on running right in front of us
to cross the road,
to follow the old joke,
to get to the other side.
Perhaps the acorns are better
on the other side.
Or the places to cache the food
are handier when winter
The road runs through the marsh,
ditches on either side
where the water flows in
during high tides.
We arrive at The Point
and wave at a fisherman
who stands on the shore,
his line in the water,
right hand shielding his eyes from
the glare of the sun as he looks at us.
He waves back.
He complains about the litter.
We nod and reply in sympathy,
and exchange stories about the things we’ve found
when picking up the trash
that others leave behind.
Fishing lures in an empty cigarette pack,
hooks in a potato chip bag.
Treasures to the fisherman.
The Sound is calm and blue,
a reflection of the sky with
just a ripple here and there
as a fish or skate swims by.
A sudden splash, another ripple,
as the water kisses the shore
retreating, then coming back for more.
Riding back the way we came,
from the Point to the marsh,
from the marsh through the woodlands,
through the woodlands to open farm fields,
from the fields through the small neighborhood,
a right turn onto our road,
a road that is not-so main,
back down the driveway,
gravel crunching, leaves floating, birds calling,
until we arrive home again, home again,
and feeling fine on this extraordinary day.