Feet up against the dashboard,
my brother drives,
a trail blazing with dust grows behind us.
A song rattles along with the shovels and beer cans in the back bed,
Road signs with faded memories attached to them one by one they pass by.
Black crows spot the sky, an oak tree stands alone with cattle grazing on a few specks of dry straw. Nothing seems to break the code of the back road: Silent, strong it seems to ask:
"Where are you going?" But before I can respond it cocks its head, "I don't care, get on."
If there were a river a flood would rush over me.
Instead a hank spreads her wings sunbathing, after yesterday's rain.
My brother points yonder, "You can find arrow heads over there."
I long for a feather from the hawk instead.
The boundaries traced with a wired fence,
leaning this way and that.
Not holding any thought unclean.
I squint my eyes, I should have worn sunglasses, though I never do. I am tempted to pull off my brother's cap instead I pull the visor down.
Endless space as it should be,
allowing thoughts to come forth,
space to let every thought take its course, twist, curl, sprout or dry up.
Tumble weed, buck's horns, bear poop, oak leaves, tree stumps, shedded snake skin –
I grab my camera that I haven't held in nearly a year, snap photos on the go.
Aimless. Letting chance or should I say the scenery do what it will.
My brother wonders why I don't roll the window down. I shrug, "Its all good. The window smug adds to it."
The photo is just a reminder of the day. The trail burns.
"I want to see a bear." I dream out loud. Later we would see a cub running into the bush, and later a small mountain cat.
We head back down to the valley as the hawk flys by I grab a feather, the cattle look up, the sun goes down,
"Where are you going?" I hear the road echo. I cock my head, "I don't care."
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