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.