missing my old life

 Old stuff.

July 21, 2015

What I see

The sky is pale blue and splattered with dirty white clouds. The twin ribbons of the highway stretch westward into the distance, the long straight sections broken by occasional gentle curves. Dotless dashes mark the center line in an endless Morse O O O O. Beside the road, files and columns of straight tall green corn stocks tipped in gold stand sentinel beside fields of low,lush, humble soy beans.  The speakers blare music and talk and sports and music and baseball and music again.  A half finished bottle of water sits warm in the door. Occasional clumps of cattle stare at the horizon, chewing earnestly. Overpasses and underpasses recede in my rear view mirror as the odometer and dash clock mark the miles and minutes.  The tires hum. The soft leather of the seat becomes hard torture on my rump. I realize, had I headed south, I could be at the beach, instead of gazing at windswept uncompromising prairie. Exit and entrance ramps offer sincere untaken opportunities to explore, to change the destination, to extend an already interminable trip. I drive on, into the evening.