John J. Uskert

My Indiana (prose)

    My daily commute, Fishers to Elwood, is a glorious routine.  The morning after an ice storm in early February, barren trees stand along Highway 37 decorated as if by glass, glistening at sunrise amid white cover.  Springtime, with seemingly no bounds, Indiana fields are plowed, cultivated and groomed, with the first green shoots of nature's bounty lined in perfect rows.  By August, stalks stand tall, having benefited from rich black earth, abundant sun and moisture, yielding the fruits of Indiana soil.  It is now late fall.  Tractors, combines and other machinery traverse the flat acreage, harvesting corn and beans from dried withered stalks; the productive earth is now ready for a respite of dormancy and rejuvenation before nature's life cycle begins once again.  Along the way, a teen shoots hoops at a basketball goal mounted to the west side of the family barn.  It's October, basketball season nears.  My daily commute is a glorious routine in My Indiana.