It was the summer of 1942. The waves of war rolled over the cities, staining every corner in smoky ash. Stolid factories rose into the sky and grayness poured into the heavens, splaying across the tires canvas draped over the land. It rang in everyone's ears, from the elderly in their rocking chairs by the heart, creak creak creak, to the children in the parks, catching, hitting, and throwing baseballs, thump thump thump. The twist of machinery, the cranks of metalwork spitting out death in innocuous-looking long barrels. So simple- a clump of iron went in, it came out, but in the end there was pain, most likely a herald of death. Over and over, in sync with the rocking chairs, in sync with the baseballs, the factories spit out these iron-shooters. Clank clank clank. Everyone heard it. Everyone thought about it. Everyone knew about it.

Except Windmill County. It was far- where the sun melted across the earth and dripped away, until reborn after the shards of diamonds were burned out of the night. It was where the cornfields whispered in the breeze, it was where the skies opened and there was only blue, only blue flecked in white. It was where you could hear the peeling cornhusks, swip crack.Swippen swap. It was where the sun warmed the grass and the earth thrummed with vivacity. If you listened closely with your ear to the land, you could hear the soft thump of squirrels chattering, struggling with their acorns. It was where we ate hickory chips in the summer and played in the lake. Where the water washed over our burning skin, smooth like the handle of father’s axe, and the lilypads danced between our splashes. For a good while, we were safe here. Safe in this summery oasis of Windmill County, far from the smog and metal and dissonance. For a good while, we were protected.