A travel day, Sunday. A book to be read for book club. Laundry. Unpacking.
New fields stretching across the scrubby lake plain, from Defiance to Lake Erie. The fields late-harvested, yellow-beige, untilled, nothing of the growing season to come about them. Only the scattered winter-wheat fields are faint green checkers of a late-end game.
There's next-to-nothing of spring in this evening -- not the fallow fields, or the skeleton trees strung along the windrows and clustered in little woods. Not in the wind that razor-cuts my face when we get out of the car. Not the in steel-grey clouds that hide any hint of sunset behind us as we head east.
And yet, there's the rub, Winter: The light that lingers past the late afternoon when we leave, and pushes us on to Toledo before we lose it, light partly manufactured with the jump our clocks took last weekend, but still: light.
Somewhere on Route 24 between Fort Wayne and Toledo, I left a poem on the road. If you find it, send it to me.