I was driving at the end of the day, at the end of summer or nearly the end, mid-August when summer is as ripe as it will ever be, the fullest moment just before the finish.
The air was heady with green and steam, so thick you could taste it. And I drove along the fields, fields of soybeans, fields of hay, and the mist hung in the rills and filled the ravines, drifting upwards softening the edges of everything. Everything was rich and ready for harvest.
I turned down a gravel road, Stump Hollow, a private path, now with an uninvited guest.
The clouds were billowing up, thunderheads tinged in rose and blue, moving ever so slowly across the sky.
Then I left the fields, and the road led me into the woods where a bridge worn and rust covered crossed a muddy stream. It rained today, poured today, stirred the mud and left earth steaming.
I was a little afraid, but I crossed anyway.
And on the other side, in the shadows of the downward slope, twilight had already come. But the grasses hummed with life. Yes, everything was singing.
The gravel gave way to dirt, and I came to the end of the road. I had to back down and turn around in another's place. It made me shy. I had stolen their space, for a moment.
No, I was taking it home with me,
