Letter | Road Trips Remembered
The rise of mesa came upon me fast, coming off heights, down to the swift run, the Colorado, just before the sun climb over eastern rise. The road before me gave way, lost into time, racing past Kingman, I saw no one, nothing.
Landscape of pinion and creosote, weathered red rock, chaparral and cottonwood far down in shallows of the Big Sandy, high pine in distance, black against the sky, far beyond Seligman, the San Francisco peaks in mist, just over way, the Navajo.
Now alone, moved on, gone he must, into the world, all that brought me here, faded in whisper, that lone drive, of many far gone into a high desert past, of a sadness, days of ponderosa pine, snow fall and blizzards blow, far, rise, high above the earth, I rose and drove, heart ached for it, but tell me why, these times so brief.
Standing aside, road distant and morning chill, all left and past lives and history spent.
Those days gone, alone. Where does it go? Held fast but slipped away, to take for that one final drive, take one final breath, of high desert, mountain fresh, river flowed and memories alight.