Newly spread manure smells fertile, seems as honest as sweat in the just-plowed and
joyous fields; soybean farmers especially are quite excited to be getting on with such
sprouting this spring.
No trains run on rails rusting from continuous disuse on discontinued routes, no freight, no
conductor to wave to the children playing in the haymows.
Never have we seen such an eyeful: everything that ever even minimally flowered is
maxxed-out this year: pinkwhite and yellow and whitepink and red and whitepurple and
green background and then all around is more, more, so much more.
No squared corner in the pole barn, no lazy dog, no barn owl which nobody gives a hoot in
Now the motorists, driving into the country to get a good deal on
antiques, say, My, isn't that what-do-you-call-that pretty? as they
push the button on the cruise control.
No June picnics or brides, no ice cream socials in a month of endless
comet's tails. No one's catching lightning bugs this June.
Nearby, on the country road adjacent, motorists roll up their minivan
windows, pop in another CD, flick the buttons to on on their AC.