The quiet is different here in this town with no stoplights.


There is a thickness to the air that persists despite the gentle breezes that carry in the smell of the freshly-cut hay in the surrounding fields. I wonder if it is the soul of this place. It is a peaceful quiet that could be a despairing acceptance of the inevitable.


I imagine an elderly hunter-gatherer sitting alone in the falling snow because he can no longer keep pace with the rest of the tribe.


Some cows escaped from the pasture today. Brian and I tried to herd them back into their enclosure. It was going well but we ultimately failed because we couldn't figure out how they had gotten out in the first place. Without a destination, our valiant attempt at herding cattle quickly degraded into just a couple of city boys chasing some cows around.


A sad farce played out under spacious skys amidst amber waves of grain.


There is a mountain in the distance. It is white, not purple. I believe it is Mount Hood.


The neighbors keep goats in a large field. The goats eat the grass in the field. I presume this frees up a lot of time for the neighbors since they no longer have to mow their field or justify their poor landscaping skills. "If you don't like my field, feel free to complain to the goats."


I remember something in the Bible about sheep going to heaven and goats going to Hell. I guess nobody is off the hook.


There is a donkey along with the goats in the field. Every now and again he will stand in the middle of the field and bray and bray as if something terribly exciting were about to happen. Which, incidently, it doesn't.


Or perhaps he just forgets that he is a donkey in a field with a bunch of goats and then suddenly realizes it again. Hence the brays of dismay.


I don't remember where the Bible says donkeys go.


Wherever it is, I doubt they deserve it.