To drive for the joy of driving.
Of feeling tires on asphalt.
A sea of trees rising and falling.
Sunlight appearing. Disappearing.
Light and color dance in and out of shadow.
The hum of the road.
The joy of the moment.
The satisfaction of miles behind.
The anticipation of adventure ahead.
Astoria – Forks – Beaver – Cape Flattery
Sol Duc – Lake Crescent – Port Angeles
at 35,000 feet.
Of life lived,
living and unlived,
opportunities and ideas
that play hide and seek
like mountains dancing
between the clouds
Of lives played out
in hours, days and years,
related and consumed in gulps.
And the hours, days and years
until they stop.
And the gulps are no more
until memories, like souls,
rise above the clouds.
No music this year.
No Nirvana or Pearl Jam or Alice.
Instead, the rhythmic
meditative hum of
tires on pavement.
Bait and Tackle.
Guns and Ammo.
Discarded boats wedged between tree stumps.
Hulls fed upon like carrion
dissolving under the weight of the sun
with no water to coax them back to life.
Around and around.
Mile after mile
we follow the shape of the shore
and trace memories in our minds.