They days get shorter.
The air colder, denser.
The motor; crisper, sharper, in tone and tach.
The first good rain strips the road of everything but it's grip.
Up and away from the things we cling to.
West toward the waves, the hills, we slice through.
The sound and the fury, reach them before we do.
Faulkner couldn’t describe this.
We don’t have time for Bill the buzzard anyway.
The nocturnal scavengers hear the call.
Their nightly search for the neglected and rotting goes into high gear as well.
The squirrels, birds, and smoky bears go into hiding.
The black and blues stay far from here.
Or maybe it’s just easier to push people around in the formulaic layout of old orchard groves, cleverly transitioned into track housing.
Out here the road talks back.
“Hug the line, clear your mind”
Coming back with nothing is what is important.
No Gas
No Tickets
No Stress
No Mistakes
A stop at the summit to cool the breaks.
Like the incoming tide, the fog slowly creeps in.
Enveloping, the beasts in a cloak to hide their tracks.
A murder’s leather gloves.
The wet air frames the guilty perfectly.
It nips at the bumper.
Warm, rich exhaust keeps it at our back as it chases us back to civilization.
Riding its crest to the shore.
We always come back for more.
1 comment:
Sick shots dude. Love the one, from the front corner of the car, while he's driving. Looks dope dude!
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