I’m trailing two pickup trucks inside of Iowa, surrounded by scattered hills of gold-tasseled corn and a morning sky the hue of milk glass. I pass a field dotted with copper cows, a gray dilapidated farmhouse posted sentry. John Deeres rest on a dirt road corner, black-eyed Susans watching from the ditches on either side.
There is something about an Iowa farm that makes me pause and drink deep, that reminds me that life is but a vapor and I should take note.
I’m out back behind the shed, sitting on a pile of dirt. I did a snake check before I sat, not that there ever are snakes but there was one, once, in my garage, and if I was him this back corner of the yard is where I’d take a morning nap. And I don’t want to be the one to wake him up.
I’m between a tipped over wheelbarrow, two lime green kayaks, a log pile half un-covered, a pale garden hose, an empty trailer, and a cracked black tarp. I’m feeling out of sorts back here, thinking I might organize it differently, or at all. If you even can organize that place behind the shed, maybe freshen it up a bit.