ALL THE WAY HOME, from southwestern Minnesota to southeastern, I watched the sky and the light and the crops as daylight edged ever nearer night.
There’s something magical about this time when light angles sharp shadows and a certain glow prevails.
On this particular evening, grey mingled with white and blue, clouds stretching and towering and sometimes nearly imprinting upon the earth.
I waited for the rain. Then, just east of Courtland along U.S. Highway 14, one of Minnesota’s most dangerous rural highways, the sky opened. For a short period, rain rushed across the windshield, washing away residue of bugs and bird poop with each swipe of the wipers.
Soon enough, the rain stopped and dry pavement rolled beneath the van tires.
I focused once again on the light — the contrast of fading sunlight against battle grey sky,
light spotlighting a hillside of tasseling corn,
vibrant yellow traffic signs popping alongside the road.
The landscape appeared more focused, like a bold-lined picture colored with pointy new crayons. Sharp. New. Unrounded.
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