It had rained the night before. Not a lot, but enough to make your gloves and shoes damp on the morning ride. Cold. An apple off a forgotten tree provided breakfast. In the distance I could hear the blasts of shotguns as the first hunters of the season tried to land their birds. As I passed through this farmland, I watched the sun come up, and the foreboding clouds roll in. The water had soaked into the dry dirt. It made the colors come out in the soil, trees, and distant hills. I pulled over and erected my easel on the side of the road. Despite the attempts of many 18-wheelers trying to topple the painting with a blast of wet wind, road, and gravel, my brushes produced this painting.
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