Sunday, November 16, 2008

whence the clouds

The corn watches me as I pass it, early and late, whispering with the breezes that smell of cows or horses or nothing, depending on the direction. Some days I am singing and others are more grim, trying to set a record or at least keep all the time for myself I can. These days it is colder and more lonesome but I don't feel sick in the elements with my pedals the way I do snug on a bus. And yet every day I watch the color drain out of the world a little more. The sky is gray in the mornings, the roads pale under dim light, the trees dull without the sun to gild them, the dry empty stadiums gape from entrance tunnels, the parking lots around barren. The corn was green then brown then, one day, gone and all that is left are tiny stumps in the dry earth. It is all waiting, I suppose, for the breath of spring which is so far off and yet still surely coming. I do not know how long I can wait.

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