they run on

The hills and curves of farmland melt into the landscape. A carpet of green meets trees and gullies and brown fields which run to meet my eye. There is no end in sight, for the trees run on and on into the horizon, claiming the farthest mountains. Red farmhouses dot the landscape through the leafless birches and wooded fortress. The barns do not seem out of place because someone must tend these fields of green. Otherwise, they would not bear fruit and instead return to the wilderness from which they came. What is out of place is the gravel road before me whose grey tones do not meet the fields of brown and green. Their color cuts off the landscape and now I am looking into a frame instead of reality. The blue sky and rugged countryside are too vivid to exist in such a context. And yet, the fields do exist here. Farmers sow wheat and barley and rye in the late spring and hope for the rain and sun with all their might. They wait for the rain like each of us waits for the love of our lives. Roads meet their dreams and they do not end there but continue to run on. They run into towns and cities and lands far beyond this farm, this land and this place. They run into you and me so that we might someday stop to see the hills and curves.