Not exactly what the farmers of
old had in mind
The sun fades long ahead of us as the amber tones give way to blues and purple. The stars and the crickets (so many crickets) soothe the mind as we travel in what feels like long circles on a straight and endless road. Much like the deserts of the American West, this place is riddled with small forgotten towns as the speed limit drops ten miles per hour every few seconds. We finally grind to a dripping pace and see that time has left yet another place behind – as if they wanted us to feel the clutch of paralysis that took down every last place standing.
We look left and then right, each glimpse a rotten car collection half eaten by the earth or a gas station with a sign that reads $1.45 – a blatant and embarrassing time stamp of death stained into its feeble structure. It’s as if they want you to take notice of how quickly we are on this planet. I take notice. I feel lucky, but I feel homesick. The speed limit climbs to 35 miles per hour. Before we know it, It’s 55 and then 75. I click the cruise control button to 80 miles per hour and cruise on, murdering every insect in my path. The wheat fields swallow up our car and afford us scores of forever more uninhibited thought.
|As we approached the skeleton of the house, a giant white owl swooped our from the window and into the tree|