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.