Ride into the Country
“Agri-tourism”, the next big thing says Dwight Schrute, and I imagine a visit to the Culbreath spread...Cheaper to ride the bike out of town, into the next county, down a road with gleaming horses moving leisurely. Suddenly the brief glimpse of a rider upon a horse, in full regalia, a mystic image disappearing as soon as it registered.
A five-inch praying mantis suns on the path, angling its pale triangular head towards me.
Two trees, alike in fair Verona, twins from a single trunk, one froths a canopy of blood, the other a hood of green.
Two little girls, maybe ten years old, riding kids’ bikes. The sharp smell of tobacco smoke: coming from where? Oh. The disjointedness of seeing pre-pubescent girls, barely past Big Wheel age, smoking cigarettes.
Pungent smell of skunk, dead in the road, the white “V” in the jet black fur.
Mixture of other scents: pine needles...“horse apples”….then fallen leaves.
Skeletal remains of corn stalks say that our own aging is in solidarity with them, with nature.
Pond, strong wind whips it, sun streaks it, replete with the wonder of fish generated within, via birds, without being stocked.