“Across the town road which separates my farm from my nearest neighbor, I saw a field, familiar, yet strangely new and unfamiliar, lying up to the setting sun, all red with autumn; above it the incalculable heights of the sky, blue, but not quite clear, owing to the Indian Summer haze. I cannot convey the sweetness and softness of that landscape, the airiness of it, the majesty of it as it came to me at that moment. It was as though looking at an acquaintance long known, as if to discover that I loved her. As I stood there, I was conscious of the cool tang of burning leaves and brush heaps, the lazy smoke of which floated down the long valley and found me in the field, and, finally, I heard as though the sounds were made then for the first time. All the vague murmurs of the countryside–the cowbell, the creak of a wagon, the blurred evening hum of birds, insects, frogs. So much it means for a man to stop and look up from his task. So I stood and looked up and down with a glow and a thrill which I cannot now look back upon without some envy and a little amusement at the very grandness and seriousness of it all.”
~The Adventures Of Daniel Grayson, 1907
Sunset, central Nebraska
Leave a note.