By Paul Rousseau
I travel a bucolic two-lane road, daily. There are scattered farmhouses, many unchanged for decades, a few in slow-motion collapse. Nevertheless, most appear operative and allegiant to their agrarian origins—crops in the fields, livestock in the barnyard. At twilight, they illumine like glittering hieroglyphics, then, as darkness deepens, the lights retreat. I marvel at the resolve of the grangers within—the ones whose gnarled hands till the soil—and wonder if they are reading, cooking, laughing, crying, bathing, fucking, sleeping, dying? I lament I will never know, for I am merely a stranger in the margins trying to get home.
Excellent.
Thank you so much Tim.
Nice read… great description… kudos…
Thank you so much.
The mood transported me. The observations resonated. Obscure words lessened the impact for me, Paul, but it was still very good.
Having recently spent time exploring a rural area, I can see this. Great tone. Thank you.
Thank you very much.
Great description
Thank you so much.
Excellent! Can relate very much.
Thank you.
Cool how you blend different levels of diction.
Thank you, y’all are good for my ego.
Very nice portrayal of an inner resonance with the outer world.
wow, thank you.
A wordsmith painting a picture!
Brilliant description. Very deserving of all the positive comments 🙂