Blue sky. Sun.
The golden edge of things. Temperature in the mid-50s. It's June; it's a cool, moist June. Every day we push one day forward. Never call retreat.
Twice in the past week "midwestern guilt" has been mentioned in my presence. Where does the guilt spring from? What does the guilt lead us to? Can we ever step past it, get beyond it?
I thought the guilt was based on my Catholicism - apparently it goes beyond that. Though I remember a dream of the end of the world. Christ came back to earth,;he was driving a Ford tractor, pulling a corn wagon, picking up all those friends and neighbors who were to be saved. He drove right on past me. I raced but could not catch up. I woke breathless, a farm boy scared to death he'd surely burn in hell.
Another time Christ came down to earth in our west forty. He was serene, certainly, but the angels surrounding him were Iroquois Indians, fierce of face and quick to keep me away from the crowd of those to be saved, quick to shove me towards the damned. If God didn't expect us to sin, why'd he give us bodies.It would be so much easier being an angel - no urges, no tingle of desire.
The flag at the cemetery in Fairwater pays no attention, it hangs down, sun on it, the stars shining.
Just north of the village, more grass has been cut on the canning factory's field, more cheap hay being put away.
No clouds in any direction. The blue of the sky runs forever - summer seeming.