Missing

Sometimes I drop into a funk of missing living on 90 acres. I fantasize about becoming a hermit and living in a little studio on the far side of the creek. I would magically have built this cabin by myself. It would be simple, clean, austere. The weather would be mostly midwestern spring. Not muggy, not hot, not cold, just right. Just right for sitting out in the evening and watching the sun set on the hill above the cemetery. Just right for listening to the creek cascade over the rough, broken up concrete pass. Just right for the redwing blackbirds to return and the occasional coyote to be spotted in the distance. Just right for the trees to have new leaves. Quiet, alone, nothing to do. 

I madly miss those long weekend days spent doing nothing but reading, listening, walking in the woods. All alone with my thoughts. Wednesday can't come soon enough this week, but I will be let down without my aimless, pathless wander. 

A day in the garden would suffice, but they are calling for three months of rain.