Thomaston, Alabama

Thomaston never changes. No matter how many times you’ve been there, no matter how long it’s been, everything is the same, waiting right where you left it.

If you stand knee deep in the pasture and close your eyes, the smell of freshly cut hay mingles with the scents of the earth itself — dark, musky, pungent with the life that seethes below. If you lie down in the grass, you become one with the wind and the sky, the hills and the gentle slopes.

If you’re very still, you can feel your heart beating, and if you’re very quiet, you can hear the words that resonate.

There is growth; there is harvest; there is growth again. The summer suns bleach and dry; the autumn skies paint the landscape in shades of pink and gold. The winter winds rake the hillsides until nothing remains but a frozen promise of what was and will be again. The lush golden bales sag beneath the weight, and cattle huddle close for both nourishment and protection. The hay scatters; the herd thins. Only the strong survive.

There is solemn beauty in this place where time holds no meaning, comfort in the cycle of life, death, life again. The sun rises; the sun sets. Decades fade into centuries; eons dissolve into eternity. Everything the same. Always.

Music: Bleeding by The Prom Kings (lyrics)

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About the image

Bales of hay lie in rows as the sun sets on a field in Thomaston, Alabama, Aug. 13, 2008. (Photo by Carmen K. Sisson/Cloudybright)

Posted on August 13, 2008 by Carmen K. Sisson tagged Alabama, hay, landscape, rural, sunset, Thomaston, writing