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“Mid glad green miles of tillage and fields where cattle graze, a prosy little village, you drowse away the days. And yet-a wakeful glory clings round you as you doze; one living lyric story makes music of your prose.” John G. Neihardt
The village is settling into Autumn. Phil took me up to the highest hill in town. From here we could see a fer piece, all the brown and yellow fields freshly harvested. We also went down into Myron Beineke’s cave where he’s been storing some of his brew.
Phil thought this was the stairway to heaven, after two weeks of marriage he’s ready to go.
