Feet up against the dashboard,
my brother drives,
a trailblazing with dust grows behind us.
A song rattles along with the shovels and beer cans in the back of the truck,
Road signs with faded memories attached to them, one by one, they pass by.
Black crows spot the sky, and 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 arrowheads over there.”
I long for a feather from the hawk instead.
The boundaries are 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.
Tumbleweed, buck’s horns, bear poop, oak leaves, tree stumps, shredded snakeskin, arrow heads, hawk feathers –
I grab my camera, which I haven’t held in nearly a year, and 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, “It’s all good. The window smugs add 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 a small mountain cat.
Dreams grow in the wild.
We head back down to the valley as the hawk flies 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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