This was a little spot I stumbled into over the weekend at the race upstate. The leaves are turning up there, the buzzing things are still singing their chorus of eternal summer:
God bless ’em.
This was in a little spot between the road and nothing. From a car you wouldn’t even notice this, looking for all the world like just a little place they scooped the soil up to mound for the road above. In this little clump of trees, not even a tree line, really, there was a little bridge:
And of course, the accompanying 4-wheeler trail.
If you walked over that bridge, crossing the thick mud patch below where the rain and road drainage inevitably gathered, you’d see a little house and barn off in the distance about 150 yards away. It looked charming enough. Who knows what prompted them to build that little footbridge, aside from muddy boots.
I’m telling myself these yellowed because they got snapped off in a storm, not because they knew what was coming:
I should enjoy the fall, it is a beautiful fall we get here, but I can’t get over the feeling of: Again?
