The storm moved in fast.  You pull over beside the fields, several times on the drive, watching as the storm wound about itself, thankful for the familiar rich air of a coming rain and for not squinting in the sun, glad at the lack of hard edge shadows.  Standing on the side of the road, with the smartphone, wishing for your real camera, you are interrupted by a holler from the road.  A man, an old one, with a long and very dirty beard, is staring at the shape of your body made out by the wind and the light summer dress (this shit ALWAYS happens when I wear a dress, you think helplessly).  His car is held together with duct tape.  He's grumbling loudly but not quite unintelligibly about your stinky sticky clam or something about do this girl.  You summon your inner pufferfish, grimace, and shriek back while tugging your dress above your waist viciously.  Shriek something about slicing dirty walrus faces open and off, something about stuffing filthy beards up disgusting poor old man asses, something about gleefully choking something rude, grotesque, inhuman with its own parts.  He drives away. You take another picture, and think about living in God's country.