A vermilion-red vine clings and prowls its way up the branches of a tree, creating a roadside rarity.....a tree all dressed up with no place to go.
An errand took us out on dusty gravel roads last evening. Ugh, to the clouds of dust kicked up by the muscle pickups that gunned their way around us.
We were watchful for deer poised in the ditches, ready to jump out in front of us. Somewhere along the line our car stopped so a chipmunk could make it the rest of the way across the road. It's in the early evening hours before dusk that the animals magically appear.
The rivers are low, very low. One of the old iron bridges we crossed marks the 1941 flood line. We tried to envision the river banks full of that much water and flowing over onto the farm fields and farm yards. Old iron bridges remember well the high waters of the past. One day soon this bridge, too, will be replaced with a modern structure, and its high-water memories will be lost forever.