All seemed crisp and self illuminated in bright slanted Autumn light. The very rural community of "The Ridge" had gathered in a festival of straw, crafts, Bluegrass and bobbing. Kids in dreads and designer shades. Women, ever attentive to their beauty, adjusting their hemp dresses and amber beads. Men of bright eyes and beards, and everywhere children.
It was one of those festivals that belies reality. It was so perfect in its simplicity, easy going flow, and gentle country nature that it was as if I were living in the description of a screen play scene.
The air was a brazen blue. The muted browns, oranges and sages of the fair goers' clothes were soothing in the harmonious tone they set amidst the "grass green" of the lawn, the deeper green of the surrounding cedar forest, and the varied golds and reds of the cottonwood, aspen and maple.
A mulatto child walked by with an ice cream cone and, atop her hair, a conical Renaissance hat , replete with pink chiffon tassel; her face stunningly beautiful: gentle ebony eyes, lips full and perfect in their symmetry, ...creamy mocha skin. A celebration of innocense and form.
Overhead, a distant white form became illuminated in the bright, unobscurred sun, it's ice crystal trail gleaming with luminescence. Flying at over 40,000 feet above the children, a US Air Force Strato-fortress flew on it's lethal vigil. Armed with technology beyond our common understanding, they preside over our common song. Do they protect or do they observe? Could we have this rural experience without them. Would be know how?
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