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.