I took a backroad again today as I headed to my friend's House to check his mail, and make sure burglars hadn't made off with his guitar. Thieves have hit the house twice, and he's a little gunshy. So each time he travels, he asks me to keep an eye on the place.

On the way over, I noticed an old house overgrown with trumpet vines that I hadn't noticed before. The rearview was clear, so I slowed to a stop and backed up to snap a picture.

Stepping out, gravel crunched under my hiking boots. Outside the reach of the truck's air conditioner, the humid air hit me like a damp blanket. 

I moved back and forth as I searched for the best angle. I glanced down to make sure a copperhead wasn't camouflaged by the knee-high ryegrass.

I had snapped several pictures before I heard a screen door slap against the jamb behind me. An older gentleman that lives across the road was curious about what I was doing.

I waved and held up my phone in explanation and pointed to the old house. He nodded and went back inside.

Satisfied that I'd gotten the picture, I stepped back into the truck and soon the AC was cooling the beads of sweat trickling down my face.

I consider myself an observant person. Writers have to be, but it's interesting what we look at daily and never see.