We were in the mood for some ice cream recently and took a drive up the road to a local place that makes the best frozen custard around. Like a silkier, creamier soft serve and completely worth the twenty-minute drive. We pulled into a little unassuming clearing right by the shop, marked by a sign as the birthplace of Thomas Jefferson, and watched the sky fade from orange to a washed indigo. The screech of the cicadas almost resonating as silence, because there's no other sound to compete.
I miss big-city life from time to time, but being able to drive from our downtown apartment to such lush countryside in a matter of minutes is something that will never, ever get old. It's always there. That silence is always right there. Whenever we need it.