Texasplayboys

The muted yellows and golden browns of the fields, were speaking to him.
They reached out and took hold of his very heart. He had always been partial to simple beauties, simple joys. He had made it a point to recognize the “perceivably mundane” in things. He often wrote of them in journals, bits of scrap paper, restaurant napkins and placemats. Often times he didn’t need to actually be somewhere to write about it. His imagination would lead him to his destination. However, at this moment he found himself along this road, simply staring at this field. There were no words to describe the feelings that he had at that moment. The sight, the feelings were more than anything he could say, more than anything that he could ever write. He simply witnessed it; he let the yellows speak to him. He wanted to take each miniscule element of this and hold it close. The fields, the yellows, and greens. The breeze that kissed the back of his neck, and rolled beyond to make the grain dance in the noon day sun. He wanted to know and remember the gravel under his feet. He bent down and held the small pebbles in his hands, rolling them back and forth, feeling the grit, the dust and texture. He looked up and down the road witnessing, wanting to remember every undulation of the road side;
Counting the telephone poles and seeing how they tilted one way or the other. The red-winged blackbirds perched atop tufting wigs of cattail. Yes, he wanted to remember that moments make a life. That their accumulations are the derivative of the artist’s bones, the writer’s eyes, the dancer’s rhythms, and the musician’s song. Yes he would remember each and every minuscule, mundane thing about this moment, for it was far from being that.
It was much more than words could convey. He smiled and looked to the sky above inhaling a deep breath of air, inhaling that yellow field. He never wanted to leave but sadly, knew that he must. He suddenly began to weep, the experience of the moment took hold of him, and the emotions fell raw from his eyes onto the gravel and dust. Crying and smiling at the same time. No, this was not sorrow, this was joy. A simple experience all too often, (in his world) overlooked, rarely considered. Something that’s passed by at seventy miles an hour. But he had stopped to look and listen, to feel the simplicity of this roadside classroom. The muted yellows and golden brown fields of this place had spoken to him.
And he listened and he would remember.