March 13, 2016
Writing about Ross gave me incredible joy. I crouched on the bridge, bent over, cross-legged. A breeze tumbled against my back. Bluegills fluttered in the water beneath me, then soared away. I could smell the prairie sage on the bank.
Late that afternoon, I stretched, gathered up my materials and gazed west down the length of the river. Cars hurtled by over the bridge on Route 23. Blue jays piped up. I turned, climbed the bank and trudged down the country road. And inside me I began traveling down another road.