waking at my parents’ house

The air doesn’t smell like flowers anymore, or leaves or young grass.  As I drove out to my parents’ house, I rolled the windows down and smelt the afternoon sun on cornfields and the backs of cows.  Late summer is rolling in.

I woke this morning to quiet.  There weren’t cars or bikes or people walking to the busstop.  There were some birds, a rustle of breeze in the trees, and the jingle of the dogs collar.  I walked in the fields white with Queen Ann’s Lace and sweet with purple clover.  I stood on a mossy path amongst the trees to pick and eat the wild blackberries until mosquitoes ate me.

It made me want to buy a house someplace quiet by fields of wheat and waves.

I guess I’m still the country kid I always was.