A
week and a half ago, in Kansas City, after packing up the show on Sunday, I first notice the creep of darkness just before seven. Today, it is a cascading river
as I walk home after day's work. Soon all will be an impenetrable pool at five-thirty. No more
throwing on bike shorts and shirts, filling water bottles, and riding out
Highway 20 to Woodbine after work. The corn grows brittle, the
soybeans hunker down. Beyond the crest of the hill we ride, the sky is all
pinks and smoky grays, like a moon shell, the lunatia hero all unwhorled across corn stalk and
hickory shoulders. The combines are out; the acorn and walnut fall. We
will lie tucked under lunatia's arm—content with long nights, remembering ocean
call in rustling corn, disappearing into pages turning—with feet unclipped
from pedals, on the couch.
