West of the highway that heads north and south, the country opens like a John Steinbeck novel. West of the highway, field upon field of alfalfa, corn, and other grains line rural roads reaches to the setting sun. How long has that highway been there; dividing the land? A hundred years ago Highway 57 connected Milwaukee to Chicago. Before that, the land bore the raised scars of the railway system. And before that. . . well, it is difficult to image.

The land east of the highway stretches to the shores of the great lake. A sliver of land, eight to ten miles in width, rests between the lake and the highway. East of the highway bustles with industry and manufacturing. Almost a quarter of the population of the state lives in that corridor. To the east of the highway, a wall of concrete and steel supply chain warehouses and distribution centers fortifies an expanding arcade of streetlights for commercial and residential harbors.

The land west of the highway covers a 150 miles or more to the Mississippi River. It is a different country — quantum distat ortus ab occidente. An ocean of fields and pastures dotted with islands of trees, farm houses and villages contrast against the land to the east of the highway. Occidentis means “region of the setting sun” or “western part of the world/its inhabitants.” The native name for this land is disputed. The original name is “where the waters gather” or “red stone place” or something. The name of the land was Gallicized by explores and later Anglicized by settlers. Aldo Leopold observed, “Land, . . . is not merely soil; it is a fountain of energy flowing through a circuit of soils, plant, and animals.”

The month of May registered a trace of rain along the patchwork landscape of the calendar. The sandhill cranes flew in from the south lands. Nested. And within a month, they cared for hatchlings. Ducks and geese followed the migration pattern. The robins were next. Though this year, a robin was spotted in late February. The red winged blackbirds gathered around the marsh areas.

As June warmed the countryside, mulberry bushes squeezed fruit from its branches. Rabbits and squirrels populated the backyards and fields of the village. The pale cloudless skies led to the longest day of the year. Fields of corn flickered to life with lightning bugs. Summer temperatures arrived. As did wildfire smoke from a thousand miles away.

Turtle doves made their nest in the corner of the apartment’s roof gutter back in May. The nest constructed at the end of the gutter and before the downspout bore two chicks. By summer solstice they had grown and flown away. The nest is empty now.

And now it is July. Bullfrogs sing a deep throaty “jug-o-rum” as the Buck Moon arrives. After sunset, Altair comes in to view high in the eastern sky. Or is that Vega?