A Proverb

A good road starts out smooth and wide and narrows as you go, begins known but ends a stranger, is messy -

wind in hair, dirt in air.

It is a long, deep stretch, a song that never ends.

There should be wildflowers, shades of yellow and violet, dangling and leaning into the breeze, sighing –

waiting for a solitary traveler.

There should be treasure, hidden behind locked gates, in secret culverts. An unplanned tire change along the way -

a moment of hesitation. Doubt.

A good road is a desolate road, a slowdown of shifting horizons and fading colors, of hidden thoughts through an open door and distant voices -

the echo of a hawk.

It’s sweat under saddle, dirt on skin, a long, lonely stretch through a long, lonely desert, a dead cell phone -

the ripple of sunlight across a dusty dash.

A good road

is the way home.