It's Quiet in the Countryside, Except for the ever passing Motorist.

I've been making a lot of observations about the world as of late. I'll sit outside when it's drizzling and feel the rain tap on my skin, soak my shirt, feel the weight of water in heavy clothes. I watched some cows meander the other day, I think all cows do is meander, maybe run for their lives when it appears dangerous, and they seem to move as I figure dinosaurs did. But then it dawned on me that only science and TV tells me how dinosaurs moved. What the heck do I know about Jurassic migratory patterns or anything for that matter.

Living in the present and the present alone gives you a very dangerous naivety. All that knowledge you have acquired melts away as the rain washes it down. Just sitting there, existing, barely thinking, just feeling, taking in with your five senses. I can smell chicken houses in the distance and that awful smell in some weird way reminds me of home. I smell that sweet aroma of chicken shit and it just makes me think of long afternoon rides home after football, your body too weary to move, your brain to hot to think, and this long invisible cloud of chicken farts sits like a fog in the middle of the road about a mile away from our house. And chicken shit smells like home.

And I see nothing really, dark gray clouds sitting just above my head, sitting on top my head, laying around, passing through, always changing their shape, maybe to confuse some cloud police or something. and straight ahead of me are pastures, rolling hills of green, the greenest green somehow made more green by the dimmed out sun, by the dark clouds, by the moisture in the air.

I hear cars passing in the distance. No one really honks out in the country, just waves quietly, solemnly and stoically like Eastern Island statues reaching out to one another. Something about country folk, their quietness, their carefully chosen words, their knuckle worked to the bone work ethic, their crow lines sliding to their ears. More like a Rockwell painting than people.

I think about Jesus alot when I sit here like this. Not about his sacrifice, or how He isn't dead, though so many think I am stupid- inadvertently so, anyways. Just how He was normally. How much He must've stunk, what Arabic sounds like, how many times he was cut before He bled out later in life. And then I think about me, little ole me. The one who calls chicken shit home. What I've done, what I'll no doubt do. How silly I am, how dark I can be. And how in darkness the light shines in me.

There are birds chirping in the distance and frogs making their bellows. Some crickets are chirping and I see something move some grass in the distance. Maybe it's a deer coming to drink water by the stream. Or maybe it's a lion, out of its cage, come to devour me.

Either way, all I can smell is chicken shit and I am at peace. I am at home.