A couple times a week, I drive about 50 miles northwest of Houston and into the country. I exit the freeway and head south along winding roads and rolling hills. I pass miles and miles of fenceline, an occasional tree, wide open fields. Cattle grazing, horses grazing. The road takes me to a friend's farm where there are more cattle and horses grazing, along with chickens and turkeys and seven Great Pyrenees dogs who lounge and lumber around the property by day and fiercely protect the cattle by night.
On the nights before the mornings I drive out to the farm, I tell myself as I'm falling asleep, don't forget your camera tomorrow. And when tomorrow comes and I'm halfway there, I realize I forgot my camera.
Today, it rained. And around every bend, there was a photo waiting to be taken. The grass was dark green beneath the moisture, the fenceposts were darkened and dripping, gray clouds rumbled across the sky. Drops of rain clung to the long lines of barbed wire. A play of dark and light reflected off the wet land. Everything of the hills and grounds and animals was saturated and moody.
I wish I could show you.