Rain had darkened the stones when we awoke, and we were glad for it, the ground baked hard, and the fields going brown, noticeable even from a mile in the air.
Good to be home, to the hollows filled with haze, to the yellow dust rising up behind us on the road, to the overgrown yard, to the rusting logshed roof, to the wild sunflowers falling at the cellar door, to the tomatoes bursting on their vines, to the pile of mail having reached its angle of repose on the kitchen table, to the dogs so beside themselves at our appearance they shake each other by the neck and run circles around the house, to the goldenrod blooming, and the blackbirds flocking, and the crickets singing in the weeds.
We will start again today.
It feels like the New World. It really does.
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
