Another morning with blue sky
behind a thin haze. Sunlight is a nimble tongue flicking the trees; the trees move with pleasure.
There is no frost on the windshield of the pick-up. The air is mild, almost warm. Almost September, not November.
In our driveway there are only sparrows, fluttering this way and that, sometimes indistinguishable from fallen leaves in the shadows.
Vapor trails overhead, running to the northwest: people insist on hurrying on their way.
I mean it now - all the corn between Fairwater and Five Corners has been harvested, even the field right at Five Corners belonging to the farmer whose fields are the last to be planted, the last harvested.
A farmer is out in his field shredding cornstalks; a thick shadow of dust is kicked up; it drifts across the road and we drive through it.
In Ripon four crows sit on the peak of the roof of Grace Lutheran Church. Holy Crow, Batman!
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