Cicadias are deafening.
They seem to drown out the other evening noises. A tractor/mower, a weedeater, the rainbow colored power parachute guy who throttles by overhead nearly every night, the drone of I-70 several miles to the south, crunching gravel on the road, a barking dog in the distance.
As I sit alone on the patio, gazing out to the prairie hills, it's easy to appreciate the Monet glow of a pink sunset behind me and the early evening stillness.
This past week, leading up to the birthday day yesterday, I gave much thought to writing a blog for my birthday. But that would be a bit too much self-aggrandizement. I really don't like to be pretentious. It's not too cool, me thinks.
So instead, here I sit the day after pondering life on the prairie . . . and wondering really what is it all about. A cacophony of cicadas . . . burnt orange prairie grasses preparing for autumn . . .
. . .a beauty unappreciated by many . . . surprises every day if you look for them. And, that's the ultimate gift of the prairie . . . touching . . . seeing . . . feeling . . . movement, change, wonder. Much like life . . . we have to be open, we have to look for the wonder - seek opportunities to be amazed.
Details, details, details . . . they say God is in the details. And on the prairie . . . it is indeed evident.
