A raucuos storm last night made me think that this morning's dawn might just be a madcap, colorful mess. It wasn't. It was peachy, the eastern sky tinted with a soft, soft orange. But there were no clouds, just low-hanging stuff that generally, once the sun rose, kept it at half mast, at best. Once it was an inch or two from the horizon, it wore this gossamer stole, and the world seemed quite flat.
I stumbled on an old cemetery I'd seen once before, probably a family plot, not more than a dozen stones set on a rise off the barely traveled gravel. I had to stop. Something about one of the stones caught my eye--husband and wife had different names (common law?). There's something endearing about the stone, although I'm guessing it's not as old as the death of George's wife Elizabeth, in 1934. Their kids probably put it there and chose the verse. Out in the middle of nowhere. I'm sort of proud to show you; nobody's likely looked at it for years.
Flowers, people say, are late this summer. They seem to be in the country too. Normally by August, the roadsides are quilted; today, nothing but emerald--and here and there just a few behomoth morning glorys. Because there were so few wild flowers today, this one seemed named with wondrous appropriateness--morning glory. Still wears a tear from last night's rain.
Maybe next week.