Making hay

I've remarked often, while driving past this field at the end of our road, that I should capture it in pictures. Its beauty with each season is stunning. Corn, wheat or soybeans--very likely, soon it will be gone.
So much of our surrounding rural landscape is being transformed into subdivisions. Clusters of clay-colored houses with slate-colored roofs mushroom each spring, as farmland generates more cash from developers, than crops. One day, I will arrive at this intersection and see it planted in grass--a sure sign that it is no longer a farmer's field. And it will be too late.


This morning the wagons and tractor will finish taking in the corn, and soon, reveal the farm hidden in the distance. The glossy stalks glow in the September sun. The air has finally turned cool and crisp, hinting color in the adjacent trees.

There's a satisfaction for me, that comes with starting a long-promised project. A comfort in knowing it won't slip past, undone, with regrets. So many things in life are lost, put off for a later date that never comes.
Naively we think there will be another chance next year. We wait for a more "perfect" time to act. Sometimes we are fortunate. Sometimes we are not.

My plans for tackling yard projects and exploring new hiking sites in the long-awaited cooler temperatures are canceled. A trip to the ER this week found a DVT in my leg.
So, I'm off my feet, and on heparin. Anticoagulant therapy should help, but it's a slow process. And, although I may get just about back to where I'd like to be in 12-24 weeks...all I can think about is how much I'll miss.

One of the hardest lessons to learn, is that there are no guarantees in life. If there's a chance to do something, do it while you can.
Make hay when the sun shines, tomorrow it may rain.