At early morn,

When the sun rises,

The air is wet,

And insects scurry to find shelter from the onslought

Of midday heat that climbs into the triple digits.

Sometimes, down this chalky outline,

A doe will run across into the ditch at either side.

No cars or farm machinery will be passing yet,

The cows need milking, and the animals need fed.

At noon,

The road is ominous.

It appears as if sod has been pulled up into a tornado,

Leaving the limestone rock behind.

There is no reason to re-gravel it.

Pieces of stone grate down into dust,

Revealing another layer to greet your travels.

No animals move in the balmy humidity,

Only the drone of locusts can be heard.

And by now, as I have been walking,

My feet are white with chalk like dust.

Oft in the afternoon, a truck will go whizzing by.

The dust trail rises like a cloud and chokes me.

As the vehicle leaves,

I am reminded of the exhaust lines

That trail planes in the sky.

Dust here, lingers nearly a quarter mile,

And the heat, not relenting, gives it no rest,

But bouy's it up on waves of sultry blasts.

Then in the evening,

The road quiets.

The locusts are tired and sore,

Anything living, rests.

Foxes and Owls start to awaken for their evening prowls.

But for now,

The sun lowers in the sky,

Casting shadows from hills,

Onto this chalky outline stretching beyond the horizen,

Darkens pieces, intermittently with cool silohuette's.

I am fatigued, parched, and thirsting.

Relief comes in the dark of night.

Crickets and frogs keep the air alive for a song.

Soon I am fast asleep.

Tomorrow, the road will be the same,

It will change before me and after me,

Not caring for the visitors that walk it,

Not caring for the creatures who pass by,

But it will change all who near it,

Even if it is just a road.

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