I went down. Saw a grove of cottonwoods standing like Corinthian columns. Also saw in a place where ostensibly they preserve the prairie a dying cottonwood all alone–reminded me of Minnesota.
What doesn’t is the hickories–I think they’re hickories–and the sycamores with their great batwing leaves. Acorns are falling, and the drought we have inherited from August has turned some of the leaves. Aloft in the sunlight the winds from a cold front I understand is at last moving in sent a yellow, heart-shape leaf tumbling down to where it belongs.
The crazy Americans were out, with bicycle helmets that have rear-view mirrors, fat guys with bulging calf muscles, slender women with strollers and dogs on a leash, working on getting back to slenderer, and in a field that looked destined for a future parking lot a lone worker in a bulldozer was putting on what seemed the finishing touches (in Colombia you will never find that kind of work being done alone).
Sylvan Ohio, with the low Olentangy winding brown in the exhausted lingering summer of September was loud with insects. Already I can name so many things here, and it surprised me; and describe better, and that surprised me; but do I belong?