My husband drives and I spend the time gazing through the
window. The beauty of long shadows on this late summer evening makes me
weak. That, and heading out of town away from work and electronic
tethers.
The road curves and the view from a bridge affords a view not of
the expected winding stream or placid lake with grassy shores but of a sea of
green and golden corn, tassels rippling in a light breeze. The field rises and
dips, shimmering as it recedes into the distance.
It seems an act of magic, possible only by nature and
imagination, a complicity of factors to make even the dying of a season a thing
of beauty.
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