Perfect

For as long as I have known this part of the planet--39.1124° north of the equator and 96.5124° west of the prime meridian, more or less--I have admired a whitewashed one-room schoolhouse that nestles under a hill in a grove of hackberry, cottonwood, and redbud trees. Nearly every day, I travel the four-lane highway that runs past it.

I have always intended to stop to photograph it, and I certainly have had the decades to get it done and get it done right, or if not right, then at least I have had the opportunity to photograph it in a variety of ways. The trouble is, the opportunity to photograph it would continue to exist, wouldn't it? So, there was no need to rush. "Time's fell hand" worked in other lives, not mine, not here--an illusion of exceptionality that I never acknowledged in so many (of Shakespeare's) words, but which was (is) ever present, I suppose.

On many days the traffic was too heavy, and pulling over to the shoulder would have been awkward, dangerous even, as excited cars and trucks, having just raced down the curve of the hill, jockeyed for position on the straightaway, like milers coming out of the second turn.

Excuses were (are) abundant. The redbuds haven't bloomed. Why not wait until they do? Or corn grew in the field and the corn was too high, or not high enough. Or the crop was sorghum, not corn, and that wouldn't do.

Maybe next season, next year.

A field of wheat would represent the locale better, but should it be green or ripe, or would stubble make a statement that waving wheat could not?

Or the light wasn't right, too much contrast, or not enough. Maybe some other day.