In a rural setting a short distance south of Indianapolis, there lies amongst the gravel roads and cornfields a small cemetery. This ancient resting place is along one of my favorite bike routes, and makes a great place to rest, stretch, and think. Directly across from the graves there is a line of trees, long ago cut and left to weather away their remaining days overlooking the somber hill.
I have felt a presence in these trees as I rode past, a chill wind on a hot summer day. I imagine the wind blowing over the hollowed remains, creating a dissonant chord, an ode to the long departed Nolins.