I was born on the prairie plains of Missouri, just shy of the Kansas border. Though I’ve lived around the world since, Dorothy was right – there’s no place like home.
The stream of life flows just a bit slower out here, where a quilt of green stretches beneath an endless canvas of blue and crickets chirp under a canopy of diamonds at night.
One year ago, on my drive back from a pumpkin patch, I passed by a bucolic stretch of fields and had to stop. I hopped out of my car and snapped this eighteenth photo of the week.