Country Manners

Until today the top three most eventful things that have happened while running down route 42 so far were the bunny that jumped out, the road kill I jumped over after looked up late and shrieked to find the deceased skunk in my path, and the wind from a terrifically large truck coming up to sweep me in the face as it sped past. I don’t run for my excitement. Today I was startled from my peaceful swollen stream gazing, one foot in front of the other jogging rhythm by the strangest, least Lexington thing to be thought of. It happened between the Jenkins’ silo and the broken down barn and farm machinery rusting to form a planter for wild flowers. Wearing my favorite crew shirt, there was nothing offensive on my back except maybe my name mistaken for a verb but safely covered by brown ponytail. A car cruising by behind me lowered it’s window. “Fuck you,” a male voice shouted and drove on and away. Where did he think he was? It’s not New York or Haven.