Still, they stand up tall.
Weathered storms with changing times.
Don’t we do the same?
To my right August gold shimmers on the leaves of soybean plants in the fields of a small farmer.
An abandoned red barn rests up the road right in front of me.
To my left, on a higher hill there’s more gold in sight.
This time, mostly hidden on the frame of a super sized ‘executive home’ tucked back in a grove of trees.
Not impressed, I choose to walk the gravel road to the old barn and pull out my camera to take pictures.
I then stop, listening to the swallows sing as they square dance over the roof.
One adventurous soul breaking away to dance in and out the broken windows.
I decide to rest under an oak tree and listen to the full concert, closing my eyes for a while.
The flock soon takes me under their collective wing, escorting me back to a different time.
I’m a toe headed six year old again, picking green beans and tasting my first bite of sweet corn at Sunday supper.
But my memory feast is abruptly shortened by sounds of the speeding, shiny trucks belonging to a nearby corporate farm.
Choking on their dust, I slowly walk back down the county road.
Resigned, and accepting that these are the new patchwork squares of my rural landscape.