A gray is overtaking the sky, crescent-arced arm of shading cloud encroaching from the north and west.
Sky straight west remains clear. Sun shines broken behind pass of smaller cloud.
Maybe it’ll rain. Maybe it won’t, but there is enough hay laid down to wait and see.
Fortuitous, stopping—resting—I notice liquid running from the tractor. I think it’s condensation. Closer look, I find the source—antifreeze from behind the fan seal of the motor. There is still liquid—it hasn’t been running hot, or dry. Another issue—but it could have been a lot worse.
I listen to the pasture—crickets and buzz of heavy insects flying by; a bobwhite in the brush line against the fence closer than I willed to chance mower and blades. Mowing, I saw a pair and a big family of little ones. Calling sound, they are grouping back.
Like quail in the cover, my home is calling.
I walk from the pasture, down gravel lane between corn and beans. Arrived to van, I go where I am called.