Picture taken from site
The bend off a major roadway started off uneventfully, the rolling hills and splendid trees are not yet in view. My Harry and I are comfortably silent in the car, the radio playing a well-known tune at a soothing decibel. We've entered a single lane side road, and my Harry slowed our pace, an instinctive reaction brought on by lurking police vehicles all around the world. An elegant country house passes by rather inconspicuously despite standing in its lonesome in the middle of a vast grass field. Far away in a distance the hills are densely covered in trees and together they look like giant heads of cauliflowers, except in color. It is autumn, a season of contradictions I heard it once said, because it is both a time of plenty and decay.
More houses pass by in midst of many more vast fields when I notice we are moving alongside an uninterrupted stone fence marking some unknown territories, or perhaps to keep invisible cattle in. I look ahead to see where it ends and find that it doesn't, it stretches on with the road. I wonder where the stones came from, they are flat and jagged individually but somehow stacked perfectly together as if they were always meant to be placed this way.
Suddenly, a couple of trees standing side by side appear next to the road, their figures big and absurd. I lean my forehead against the window to take a good look and I notice their leaves have completely fallen as if the trees feel more imposing in their nakedness, bulging in their trunks, fierce branches jabbing every which way. Together they grow more menacing as we approach, determined to frighten people any way they can. I reckon perhaps their larger than life persona had spared them from the axe, or they have simply gone deranged from being the only survivors after many untold tragedies to their kind.
The sun shines from the back and our view lit up by a warm spread of light, and here and there emerged sparkles of gold. Reds and yellows and oranges intensified. The houses too are illuminated but they barely cast any shadows, or the glowing fields around them would not permit any. Yet the picture is all wrong, because the backdrop is not a clear sky blue, but instead an uneven dirty white and grey. The clouds are sinking, and they give the appearance of being draped in layers, like a velvety theater curtain impenetrable by the brightest lamps. I have read that the smallest baby cloud weighs more than a hundred elephants.
"These clouds weigh millions of elephants." I say, at once realizing it is an unintelligible remark, but my Harry answers knowingly, "That looks about right."
Another familiar song is on the radio, and the sunlight fades, and the colors again settle into a less contradictory palette. The world steadily rolls by, but it is no use. I am disappointed by the loss of a sudden brilliance, and a train of thought is forever halted. I feel my mind closing in, and again I am aware of my Harry's presence, the melody of a song, and the prospects of our destination.