The early spring foliage and limestone ledges skirt along a borderless path masking hidden crystal waters. Contrast with carcass remnants lying along the road’s edge, accented by randomly tossed silver-and-gold cylindrical aluminum markers.
Buds forming on barren timber skeletons twist and reach for the clear blue sky, wanting to touch the source of light. While rolling green pastures outlined with rusted wire are dotted with brown grazing bovines.
A stately stone home rests atop a manicured hillside. A perched overlook guarded by a three-railed border. Life within these confines would seem peaceful and orderly, with all appearances mirroring the tree-lined driveway.
Sitting opposite the yellow line, a rotted metal corpse of a still-inhabited single-wide. The dilapidated remains of one’s hard-lived life are scattered about the porch and yard. Discarded and abandoned like fleeting optimism. The sun’s rays outline the tractor tire planter, now forgotten, but once filled with purple perennials and hope.
Winding through the ups and downs of an Ozark mountain road, the juxtaposition of rural life in America is on full display. Yet the good Lord’s presence and His love know no boundary. On both sides of that country road, grace still travels—quietly reminding us that dignity, sorrow, beauty, and hope all belong to the same landscape.
