Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

I pass two young men whose only excuse for being abroad in the country is to practise (sic) shooting at a mud hole.
A sun-burst forms in the southwest – above it the sky-hole is such a deep fathomless blue that I can only stand in awe – all around the clouds seem so low that as if I could almost reach up and touch them – and I suddenly have a warm intimate feeling of being in close contact with the Infinite.
Beyond here another farming plowing – I cross the field to talk to him with the purpose of better observing how the plow is constructed – He is a young fellow with a dull red skin, thick lips & other heavy coarse features that suggest heavy drinking and animalism; he seems to distrust my presence, and I leave him awkwardly, embarrassed. It is inexplicable.
The sun continues to delight me with its dramatic effects – now it sends a fan-shaped group of rays down to a serpentine creek – another farmer planning – I nod to him and he speaks pleasantly “Good-day, gentleman.” I pause to talk to him. He is old and wrinkled reminding me of a cricket. He speaks enthusiastically of the beauty of the day. I ask him about his plowing and he speaks with pride of the straight furrows. I decide to cut across his field to the hills, & follow along behind him to observe in detail how the plowing goes. I leave him with a pleasant glow.