Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Three, Naughty Rock

I spent a comparatively sleepless night, listening to the owls. And what may have been an elephant, or a heartsick deer. I suffered somewhat from a hacking cough. I had inhaled a great deal of dust. It had mixed with the moisture of my lungs to form a sort of slurry.

My second-best knee had its own complaints. Poor sad suffering me. It was hard to get up the steam I needed to hike to the next town. Corydon, Iowa was eleven miles off. I stopped once for bagels and cheese. I wish I could have enjoyed it better. It was a nice stretch of road.

The trees are pretty and I shared my shoulder with a number of Amish kids. In black hats and bonnets, piled into buggies, out there raising hell. They all waved. They were friendly. They looked content. They handled their horses well. It looked like more fun than going to school. I wish I could have spoke with them some.

I was not well served by a strong headwind. Twenty-five miles an hour. Which is not enough to knock me down, but it can be discouraging. It was as if all of Nature wanted me to sit down. Or take a forty-year nap.

On the edge of town I had a hearty lunch at the bowling alley/Baptist church. The woman at the next table belched and scratched and bragged about her new trailer. I ate my burger but could not finish my french fries. Christ watched me from the wall.

Find me now at the Nodyroc Motel, pride of Corydon. I took a long shower and did some laundry. It all needed to be done. But I feel guilty. I hate to waste a fine day. Even one with gusts up to forty. Not least because this soft living robs me of my poetry.

Goodnight.

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