YOU may be the driver, but really,
you're along for the ride
A thousand gloomy fortresses line the roads. — Drab, foreboding walls of various sound attenuating materials and designs. Garrisons of almost-new to slightly older houses peer over the palisades. Watching as we pass by making noises with our tires, engines and the wind.
I's the same for miles. Cresting a small ris in thee road, blue-grey and dark rust coloured roofs stretch off as far as the eye can see. Row on row on row. Wave after wave after wave. We are at sea.
When I was small, the world slid past the car. Everything at its own pace and in its proper place. Mountains, Distant and regal might as well be stationary... Kings and Queens of all that they survey from their bald summits. Foothills a little faster, but just a little. In the middle distance, fields and forests slide by but still no need for haste. The world will wait. Nearest to the car, fences, trees and telephone poles fly past in a frantic blur accompanied by a chaotic echo of our road trip reflected back by each tree, pole and fence. The sounds of the engine, the tires on the road and the wind making vortexes around the car.
Later... Now. The coffee's still warm
but the bagels have been eaten.
A bit of gravel crunches
under the tires.
Thank you
