Sometimes I hear the land rumble with millennia as I drive 45 minutes late to meaningless days. Then I hope the birds and air are defiant with creaks and not resigned to the dilapidations of my efforts and the people who hoard them along with other’s into little piles to block peaceful streams and eviscerate pastureland.
With the sun radio reports, car chase hubcaps and lipstick cases dropped in nightclub passion come to rest. Living room bulbs are snapped on to reveal wine glass ponderances and cushion defecting television remote controls.
The roadways hold me to their course with rumble strips on either side. Then between fluorescence and linoleum I jingle machinery and tickle notions unimaginable to aboriginals here. Returning, I will pull over and run, maybe guard rails are no match for me.