I was on a mission. (Is that possible when you’re being spontaneous on vacation?) And so I found myself driving down a country road, where the grass leaned into the road that I wasn’t sure was wide enough for two cars. The grass was just trim on the corn fields, threaded through with the gold of tassels and drying leaves.
Lights flashed at the railroad crossing as the barriers came down. I drifted slowly to a stop before the train began passing, car after car of freight containers and three-bay hoppers. The tracks flashed in the sunlight: flash-shadow-flash-shadow-flash-shadow-flash. A car stopped behind me.
The railroad crossing was shaded, like the tracks were a river. A few other stands of trees dotted the fields, but it was mostly corn. That, and on my side of the road a flower garden, overflowing around someone’s driveway and mailbox: pink and orange, yellow and purple and bits of red, growth where people might have to stop for the railcars to pass by.
Were they for us? An outgrowth of the beauty of waiting, what can be seen when we stop and look around? Or only a flower garden, bursting for space until it crowds to the very edge of the road?
I was reminded to look for the beauty, anyway.