She sits in a lonely field somewhere in upstate New York, the busy farm in the valley below suddenly quiet as the minute and hour hands meet together at the peak of the clock face. A solitary being seems to make sense.
With only the birds and the light breeze as distraction, suddenly the anxiety and business everday life brings melts away. Baking for a while in the sun to the satisfaction of the freckles whose existence sunshine births, she moves suddenly into the shade of the ancient maples lining the peimeter of the field. Surpsising, as she does, a rabbit and black bird out of their exclusive thicket.
She places her worn pack on the remains of a rock wall and takes a drink of sun-warmed water. Reluctantly taking note of the time, she shuffles through her pack, pulls out a book and settles down for a blissful two hours before being forced to re-enter the world of schedules and distraction.
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