With this celestial projector behind me, my shadow was broadcast across a Martian-like landscape (only the grass giving the illusion away), I walked along, the shadow slipping northward as the sun rounded south. I was Farmersville's solitary Yeti, lumbering along, truly larger than life.
Here's a wider view. The gravel rises in high relief, the grasses and weeds stand wet after a cool night (49°) and I, clad in only a t-shirt and shorts, have no fear of overheating on this morning's walk.
On the return lap, the sun shines squarely in my eyes but the seedy head of grasses, now backlit, shine with a white exuberance and seem to gain cottony tops. This view is not seen as I walk back Sam's lane, only when I return sunward. Our attitudes are equally influenced by a moment's view, a casual comment.
A few minutes before, when I first stepped out the door with garbage for the compost, this is the view I saw on our north lawn. Yesterday I mowed the grass and so it was short and cropped even. It served as a green screen for the dark shadows of pine to rest upon. It rippled with dew. Across the road a fog enveloped the corn, lifting like steam nearest the road. It was a dreamworld for the early riser.
Who cannot feel winter in the air, even before the calendar says autumn? I slept with a window open and relished the throb of insects ... crickets slowly counting off the degrees, katydids bowing a nighttime chorus. I went to sleep listening to this orchestra. Each time I woke, owing to the cooler temperature, the tempo had slowed. Long before the sun rose it played out and stopped.
I perhaps follow a different beat. As the air cools and a bitter wind bites, I walk the faster. The insects are proportional to temperature; I am inverse. I was never one to follow the usual ways. Every step I take proves it.
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