He sat in a blind in overlook and cover of worked field, disked and planted to wheat in long, odd shape made in frame of wooded waterways that were its bounds. Across the dry, earth-turned clouds, gossamer strands of fine spun webs danced in wind and western sun. Sun still high, day still full, he settled in, expecting nothing until eve and near of night.
He quieted. He stilled, settling in to an old sold way in break of modern’s rush.
He breathed, stilling and slowing more in watch of the gossamer strands; drone of a highway not that far interjecting into nature-scene.
Could one ever true and fully get away in this modern day and age? If so, where?
Wood edged bounds of the fields were mostly locusts, hedge, and maple; and spring-fall of the maple helicopter seeds encroached little by little, new seedling stand after seedling stand if not disked away from year to year. This year, the edges were regained. The leaves were fallen from the woods save for the few pin oaks that held their brown and curl-cured leaves—fall absent a splendor.
In his mind, he thought of hills, hardwood covered and still in color; clear spring streams in run at their feet, cutting ever deeper into stone and expose of mountains’ soul.
In his mind, he imagined her too, in cabin in the trees; woodstove’s burn in filling of room in heat and fire’s scent; set of the sun over crest of ridge, they viewing from veranda and rocking chaired sit.
If one could ever true and fully get away in this modern age, he imagined it was there. And so, of place, he dreamed.