Seasons On The Old Gravel Road
It was a mile of winding gravel road that led to the weathered farmhouse. In summer the old road was generously lined with patches of wild flowers; their porcelain like petals reached to absorb every ray of midday sun. Wild June roses in various shades of delicate pink sprang up from rocky hillsides filling the humid summer air with pungent aromas. Lavender seas of clover waived in the breeze. On warm summer evenings, if you listened closely you could hear the corn growing and stately rows of purple plum trees stood like soldiers at attention.|
To the left of the road, the muddy water's of the mighty Crow river rushed by in a whirling frenzy, leaving behind weathered pieces of satiny, polished driftwood...An occasional abandoned clam shell washed up on the sun warmed sandbar. Swirling, vengeful currents caught bits of debris and pulled them below the water's surface with swift and final movements.
In winter the old gravel trail became an impassable stretch of jeweled, drifted wasteland completely obliterated by each blizzard. Sometimes the drifts seemed to reach heights to rival the mighty Alps. The road was reduced now, to a single path made by some brave adventurer who couldn't wait for the snowplow to get around to opening that last mile.
But in the spring the trail was filled with the delicate colors of a fine old painting. The air was lightly scented with the fragrances of blossoms bursting forth. Sweet aromas of plum and crab apple trees drifted through the quiet night air. Carpets of lush emerald green welcomed the softly falling rain, but a severe thunder storm could reduce the road to a muddy trail with ruts that deepened with each cloud burst. Red-breasted robins pulled plump worms from the warm earth and splashed in pools left by recent showers.
A tiny furry bunny strayed from its mother and scurried down a rocky embankment. At times a spotted dear could be seen loping along side a freshly plowed field. Just beyond the ridge, a hedge of fragrant lilacs almost completely obscured the view of the faded white washed barn that looked as if a strong gust of wind could level it.
In the fall, the trail became ablaze with falling leaves in russets and reds and gold's, not unlike a fine Indian tapestry.
The water's of the mighty Crow river ran a little clearer now and glistened like a million blue-white diamonds in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. Snowy anemones jutted from the water's edge. An old fashioned rambling rose trailed lazily up a moss covered bank and became entangled with wild blue and white morning glories. A startled pheasant took flight and soared to the safety of the opposite bank.
I remember the wondrous beauties of this old gravel road and also its hardships, but best of all, it always led me home.
© 2019 Mariannajo
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