The air was warm and shrouded the mountains in a gauzy autumn haze. The sunshine was filtering down through the leaves and making shadows dance along the sidewalks. Where the sun touched colors, they were vibrant and glorious. There was a basket of red geraniums high on a second story window box. I saw ivy and leaves just beginning to turn as if autumn fairies daubed their paintbrushes on random bits of foliage. The creek was singing along its merry way, and the blue-green water threw sparkles everywhere.
In complete contrast to the beautiful day, the manure spreaders had been at work along the kinderpath. In fact, one was still out in the field as I walked by. Thankfully the machine was in the far corner of the field away from me, but it had still managed to fling poo all over the walkway, so I spent that part of my trek dodging miniature piles along the way and trying not to breathe much. The smell was terrific, and by terrific I mean terrifically horrible. I'm pretty sure it was hog manure. Growing up in farm country in Illinois, I discovered each animal has it's own particular brand. But even that little odiferous escapade is just one more quaint addition to life here.
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