Saturday Morning Catch

Warm for November, but already the world is russet and tawny, otherwise largely colorless. This morning the sun whispered its way into the eastern sky, then left again behind a mask, just as surreptitiously. Dawn didn't make a bridegroom's entrance, but I couldn't have been at a better spot, sitting along a very quiet Big Sioux. It's that time of year when the sun comes up directly over the big bend--I'll probably be right there again, often, in the next few months.

There's something about water, something about a river early morning.

On my way home, I stopped at the childhood home of Iowa writer Ruth Suckow, where a company cats was clustering, as if Ruth's father, the preacher, was about to deliver a thoughtful morning's meditation.

No trophies today, but a favorable helping of sweet peace.

I'm reading Walden again. Thoreau would have found it very nice. Wish he could have come with. "I've traveled a long ways in Sioux County," he might have said, a wry smile across that long face.