There is a subtle sting in the air and crisp wheat field feel of rushing summer. There is a living painting that exists in a secret quiet place. In the distance an old barn nestled in a fading green field sits a lone with pink spray painted words “Better Days”. A long dirt road stretches out for miles and tumble weeds skip on a stage without audience. Behind a broken fence two horses nestle necks as shinny black manes toss in rhythm with the dancing wheat at their feet. An old blue Chevy truck missing a tire tilts up to sky mimicking the expansive bluish hue of the setting sun. A white meek ranch rambler house proudly sits with two wicker rocking chairs and laundry claims its title like flags flying on the line. The breathless flat dusty silence reminds tired eyes of summers past and “Better Days” yet to come.
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