I sat on a mower in the middle of a two-acre field. Paths of light and dark criss-crossed the grass. Bees darted in and out of the chaff. In the distance, cars drove on the other side of the post-and-rail fence; soon, I would need to walk the trimmer along the posts to clean the growth.
That work could wait, though. For now, I was on break; and deep in the reading of a book.
I’ve always enjoyed reading in out-of-the way locations. To be exact, I do love reading everywhere: at home, on a train, in a library, or even settling into a page at a bookstore. Yet there’s a special alchemy of sorts that occurs when one reads in a spot, or in a manner, that is incongruous with that place.
