There were no miles before this,
no miles behind us, only now —
cool, moist air through open windows,
and the smell of rain,
sage brush and red earth.
The evening stretches out,
a yawn of darkening sky.
Interstate travel out here is easy —
it’s not about how far you’ve come
but how far it is to the next town,
how far it is to where you want to go.
We do not talk on long trips.
There is the sound of tires and pavement,
the rushing of wind like growing silence.
When we stop, we slowly walk
in a deserted rest area on a small rise
overlooking a valley of alfalfa.
She bathes in the shadows of treeless, rocky mountains.
The quiet is restless and constant, like a child’s breath.
Swallows swoop on extended wings and glide
close enough to grab. Cattle graze ceaselessly behind us.
Lightning dances on the mesas,
and a star appears above the thunderheads
in a bruised sky. She has closed her eyes.
The present is everything. The future is nothing
but a destination. Let the miles pass as they may.
