After spending a month traveling from the woods of Missouri to the suburbs of Tennessee, the ranges of Nevada to the basins of California, here I am, back in the plains. Back at Konza. 
Sunday morning was beautiful, really, though hints of an overcast afternoon hung in the air. Manhattan had been socked in fog for nearly a week -- enchantingly mysterious at first, then just grey and soggy, -- so the sunshine seemed especially bright while it lasted. I don't know whether it was the slightly chilly temperature or the fact that I was there so early, but I had the whole place to myself -- no other cars, no other hikers at first. Nor birds nor cows nor any other semblance of life -- just the brown brown grass, the blue blue sky, and me.
Not much to think or say (running out of things to think or say) -- pretty pictures to share (hopefully I won't run out of pretty pictures), a nice day, a decent place to walk. Konza. (Right. Then there's the bridge sign. I've become accustomed to it by now. Ambivalent.)
