Note the highway.
Noted.
Is it?
I see it.
Don’t see it. Close your eye. Feel it. Hear it. Smell it.
Smell it?
Ground yourself. Go on.
Leo kneeled, keeping the toes of his work boots where asphalt collided with dirt. Jeaned knees covered the old white stripe, weathered, salted. Bent over, Leo lightly tipped asphalt with his fingers.
Feel it. Not touch it. Feel Mamba.
Snake?
Desert racer, essing across hills into valleys over mountains begging for drink. It’s why I like it here. Everything holds value. Nothing is taken for granted.
Nothing ever should be.
photo by Daniel Agee. All rights reserved.
Martina magically produced a Salem. Guarding flame from flitting wind, she got her stick lit. Martina sucked deeply on the cigarette, blowing a personal cloud to her right.
Shouldn’t do that.
Too much at once?
Too much…
At all?
Leo’s boots, worn to where he now referred to them as cow boots, heel tamped down so much there was no boy left in them, caught a small slug of sandstone, sending the unfinished rock into three different places.
Martina suggested the tour on this day, a day set aside for rest and relaxation but marred by unspeakable intensity. Time to exit oven, air trapped so thickness sickened, speaking death.
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