Sometimes a word or phrase comes like a pulse into my blood, a stone in the palm of my hand becoming warm and smooth and hard to let go of. The word that was a refrain for me this weekend was “bucolic.”
I was headed out of town Saturday morning, the scent of coffee still in my clothes, banana bread dripping melted butter onto my jeans. Dew glistened on the fields, barns stood out against a milky blue sky, the breath of horses rose in the air. Turning into the driveway leaves flew around me and spattered gold in my path.
When the word was still quivering in my veins that evening, I looked it up. I had it right.