....how long 'til my soul gets it right/can any human being ever reach that perfect light...
Today I head for the first time in fifteen years to the Lovely Landlocked Land of Indiana, home of my conflicted childhood. Here on the crime-ridden frightening East Coast, I have never had a knife held to my throat on the schoolbus. Don't talk to me about the Mild Midwest; I won't believe you.
Yesterday, I cross the bay, gaping at the sparkle of water, the rush of a young egret across a shallow inlet, the soar of a sea hawk, the expanse of farmland that reminds me of the fields of Indiana.
Lined up like gravestones, one after another, derelict farm implements, each more ancient than the next, stand in neat rows. There may as well be a sign reading Rust Home For Retired Tractors.
There IS a sign. It says Registered Holsteins.
I did not know you needed a permit to carry a cow.