Morning Thanks

Garrison Keillor once said we'd all be better off if we all started the day by giving thanks for just one thing. I'll try.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Saturday morning catch--a foggy, groggy dawn

I have a friend who knows vastly more about flora and fauna than I do.  He claims I'm a fair-weather fan--I love dawns only when they're colorful and bright and sunny.  

He's right.  Photography, I've come to learn, is all about light; when there ain't any, it's slim pickins.  Twice, barely out of town this morning, I turned around--then turned again and kept on going, figuring the fog might lift. 

No such luck.

Eventually, I made it out to one of my favorite haunts, not far from the state line, a woebegone place down at the end of two miles of travel-at-your-own-risk dirt roads.  It's almost scary to be there--it seems so far, far away.  And yet, even though the fog was thick as sea poop, it was a joy being there, up on a hill above miles and miles of trees and corn and soy beans rolling away into dark azure in every last direction. 

But the morning's glory was this defaced, dilapitated sign.  I can't begin to tell you how far off the beaten path I was--more than a mile from the nearest farm, down a road so unusued it was hard to find tracks and I needed every inch of our little Tracker's clearance to get through.

And there, honestly, middle of nowhere, a couple, I'd like to think, felt graciously compelled to put their love up in bright crimson.  "B hearts R," then a smiley face, just about a year ago--9/10.  I wonder if it lasted. 

So what if it didn't?  Sometimes they don't.  While the two of them were here, it was breathing heavily--that's all I need to know.

Even though there's no reason for a sign to be out there, miles from traffic, there's probably still a law against those kids' sweet graffiti.  But then I think any big-hearted judge would let 'em off; after all, those proud red letters smother the shotgun blasts, don't they?  I mean, some others hillbillies out there, hunting pheasants I'm sure (since I kicked up at least a dozen when I got out of the car), couldn't keep a lid on the testosterone that builds up in a man with a gun, and one of them drew a bead on whatever the sign once said, just let go and ripped a hundred holes in it long before the lovers arrived.  Deer rifles too--and 22s.  Target practice.

But you've got to look close to see that mess now because B and R blessed that ruin with their sweet testimony.  See?  Love'll smother the blasts, mostly, right?

I'm an old man, but that was the highlight of one gorgeous foggy morning on the prairie. 

There wasn't much light, but I poked the camera around anyway.  Have a look.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Beautiful Iowa fields and old hay barns, but those sheep look like they are in Navajo land.

Anonymous said...

"sea poop" - I like it