Last week I made my way to the eastern side of my state for work. On a previous post I described how the terrain changes in a mere 270 miles. I hoped to see the hills ablaze with color, but that was not to be. Ablaze, no. Spots of color, yes. It could be that it was too early. Perhaps the trees are not ready to exchange their green coats for all shades of red, orange, and yellow. Occasionally a scarlet tree would stand proud among the greens, as if to say, “Look at me! Fall is here.”
The golden rod (a weed) hugged the edges of the road as they waved back and forth. My thoughts were “allergies beware.” The wild sumac stood just behind the golden rod. Every nuance of red could be viewed. That was the color I was searching for in the hills.
However, the most spectacular sight from this trip involved brown, green, and white. Driving out of the hills of the Ozark Mountains, I enter the flat fertile plains of the bootheel of Missouri. Stretching for acres and acres are the fields of cotton. Some plants have dried and turned a brittle brown. Some plants are in the process of drying, but they have a few green leaves close to the main stalk. But the most incredible sight is the white balls of cotton. They are riding high on the plant, like the foam of a wave. I wonder, “Is my future blouse out there somewhere?” Words can’t describe this scene, so maybe a picture will help.
Of course I had to touch the cotton. The softness surprised me! Yes, I did pick one little stem. I happen to know a first grade class with a wonder table. It’s not bones but it is something that you won’t see on our side of the state.