I saw her for the first time today.
She’s sat there for probably 150 years, and I’ve passed her by 150 times–or more.
I don’t know what caught my eye on this gray misty day.
I don’t know what forced me to halt the Journey half on road, half in ditch and gaze on her in awe–then to creep forward and backward for different perspectives.
Maybe the way she’d festooned her aging frame in yellow, green, and gold.
Maybe the way I could see straight through her, a window to what lay behind.
I wondered about her story.
How was she born?
Did she house animals or machinery?
Did her belly burst with corn?
Did life revolve around her?
Now she sits still on the stubble of a harvest.
Weathered and worn, broken and bowed.
Idled and idyllic.
A silent testimony to the past.
A legacy of the land.
If I listen close, I think I hear her breathing, humming a hymn of praise.
Her song has not been stilled. Her purpose is to praise.
And I realize her beauty is in simply being.