The rolling hills are gentle and soft, scattered with rows of trees that create breaks in the fields; where one set starts and where another ends. The horizon stretches on for as far as the eye can see, almost to the point that you’d swear you can see the curvature of the earth right before you. Fields full of the crop were swaying gently in the breeze, dancing, moving to the rhythm of nature. Overhead they are watered by sprinklers that circle the fields from above. This method of irrigation creates a sight that is only visible to those who fly over. Shallow ditches line the long road as it reaches out and disappears into the distance. On the horizon, an old derelict silo stands tall, weathered, and worn. It has since become a symbol of an industry that was once vibrant and a reminder of changing times. In the other direction, a far off windmill marks a shallow watering hole where the roaming cattle gather for a drink.
It’s bright and sunny on this day. Only a handful of soft white picturesque clouds adorn the sky above. In the distance, a storm lingers, reaching up towards the heavens but still hours away from this place. A cool breeze whips through the air, gently rolling west to east with a hint of humidity.
Standing on the side of the road, taking in this scene, a man leans against his car. After a few minutes of taking in the atmosphere of middle America, he climbs back into the car and slowly accelerates, once again leaving a reminder of where he has been, even if only for a few brief moments until the mid-morning breeze pushes it away. His pace, like the way of life around this county, is just a little bit slower. Today, like most, he is not in a hurry. Not because he doesn’t have anywhere to be, or because he wants to take it slow and relax, but rather it’s that he doesn’t want to get where he’s going.