I set out without a plan today, with neither a map nor an idea of where I might go. A pocket full of money, for possible tolls or road snacks and a tank full of gas, are the only essentials – those and my fully charged camera and memory cards tucked into place.
It is early October and the earth is preparing for change. The morning sky features pink-tinged fluffy lambs, who busily leap, traversing the horizon. A runway array of maple trees displays the new autumn line of yellows and oranges; while viburnum and holly berries turn from green to bright red like ruby encrusted netting.
Crossing the reservoir, I see the calm water mirror the forested banks. The only difference from real and reflection is the gaggle of geese gliding by, leaving v-shaped ripples in their wake. Traffic begins to pick up, red brake lights line up in a queue; when the traffic light turns green, then red lights incrementally disappear.
I head westward towards the river passing farms with fields stripped of corn stalks and hay. I see a cloud of blackbirds gleaning seeds from off the ground. Constantly rotating upward and forward from back row to the front, they form a horizontal vortex. When the surface is vacuumed, they break rank and scatter in the air in search of another field.
I take a winding roadway curving northward while climbing in elevation. The sun is at my back and the undulating shadows of trees wane as the clock approaches noon. The river is to the left of me; with windows down I can hear the current’s roar, the birds’ songs and the crickets’ chirps above the motor’s purr.
A roadside market appears on my right, selling apples, cider, pumpkins and mums. The red-weathered building is old, long lumbered shelves sag from the yearly bountiful weight. It’s a good place to stop for a while, on this journey to nowhere today.
I joined Writers Bloc, a group of writers from Monmouth County, NJ, whose styles are as diverse as their backgrounds and interests. Here are some of my writings from our meetings.