Rise up from out thy trough old man. The cynic suffers from self inflicted wounds. The sun is up and warming the field and the cattle continue to stand like R & H statues. The birds climb, duck and dive like silent planes over the opposite bank of the wee river. The golden corn will soon be ready for shuckin’. The orange trees are over-laden with fruit. All is well with the world except for the stench of man’s institutions which I can not see them from my kitchen window.

Come and see the view, Woody, of the browned off paddocks ringed with the green of the state forest and feel the warmth of the sun and sip a crisp, cool drink of the juice of that fruit. Let the beauty of it all sooth your weary soul.  The horses will wonder over to the near fence and pretend to nod off (while secretly taking notes for the CIA).

We will laugh away our fears. Some will jive-up a man with their sycophantic notions, others will shuck-down that same poor man with their demonizing notions. Is either perception true?  We will smile at our own foolish notions as they melt into the nothingness from which they came.

Come and let the wizardry of the OZ sun re-charge your batteries and let the produce of the fecund earth rejuvenate the weary, Woody.