Sprained my plotter or maybe my smutter

25849 / 50000 words. 52% done!

You have biked 259 miles.
You have passed Ancient fortess of Weathertop.
It is 5 miles to the next landmark.
You have 199 miles to reach Rivendell.

Standing upon the rim of the ruined circle, they saw all round below them a wide prospect, for the most pan of lands empty and featureless, except for patches of woodland away to the south, beyond which they caught here and there the glint of distant water. Beneath them on this southern side there ran like a ribbon the Old Road, coming out of the West and winding up and down, until it faded behind a ridge of dark land to the east. Nothing was moving on it. Following its line eastward with their eyes they saw the Mountains: the nearer foothills were brown and sombre; behind them stood taller shapes of grey, and behind those again were high white peaks glimmering among the clouds.

And because this gave me shivers all over

"Lammas is nigh. The Beloved who Dies and Comes Again is dancing towards the Scythe with love in his heart, and there is a sadness that pulses in the sweet earth in anticipation of his fall. The season of bread and death steals closer. The corn out in the fields beyond the city where I dream is rustling tall and fine. The Mama holds her breath. He is there, the King of these first fruits – and our hearts, mimicking the heart of the Bride, are full to bursting, full and rich, and ripe for breaking. Open apples on the thirsty ground hold out their liquor to become a festival of bees. Hay in the fields. The sunflower and the thunderstorm. And Harvest rising. Harvest walking over the fields, holding the sparrow in his hands. A season so multilayered that it shocks the tongue.

Harvest rising. O Beloved."

From "Cup of Dreams, Summer Drift" at the Pagan Godspell blog
http://gospelpagan.wordpress.com/2010/07/20/cup-of-dreams-summer-drift/