future country

Some people couldn’t imagine living anywhere but the city. I, on the other hand, would be heartbroken if someone spilled the news to me that I would never see open pastureland out my bedroom window again. It would hurt to know that I will never again see the light show of thousands, millions — billions? — of stars on a daily basis.

Fields green, then brown with harvest. Cicadas chirping at the night. Hay tucked into big round bales, in rows, just as useful for running on top of as for feeding cattle. Trees, barns, lanes — places to dream. Wide open yards, smelling sweet with freshly mown grass. Grass that was cut by a girl singing her lungs out because the roar of the riding lawn mower invites her to. Insects biting, but the itch saying that summer’s here again. Gravel painful beneath bare feet. Grass cold and soothing afterwards. Hills dipping down, out of sight from the house, where I’m finally… alone. Talking out loud, singing, praying, with no one to hear but God. In the still of the morning, five — no, six — deer stopping, listening, waiting, bounding in the back yard. Climbing trees, jumping out on the best tree swing in the world. Building fortresses of grain bins, propane tanks, cattle chutes, or… air. Empty roads — just me. If a car comes, a flick of the wrist says, “Hello, stranger. Welcome home.”

Yes, it would sting to know. So, if you happen to see only suburban streets and star-deprived skies in my future, keep it to yourself. Because I prefer to dream…

inspired by j.l.s. and home

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