Come Back to The Shores of What You Are

The travel of Cadillac along empty highway. The sweet toot of the hillside train. Lonesome? Mournful. It chugs, this Cadillac, somewhat, and its occupants are oblivious to its stutter. Soaking up the fact of their journey, in all its epic significance, they are captured in the frames of an eight-second view. The train eases away from them, forward, the great privilege of the American railroad.

By cactus and bush, the Cadillac. Its occupants squat, four of them, all women. The horizon balances the last of the sun. Rain? A fall in temperature, a hang of moisture pulsing the air. They hurry inside, the clunks from their doors synchronised to the drop of the light. No horizon, simply the dark. This engine had better ride, someone says, from out of the black.

Crawling into a barn, into the haystacks, they would have done it for sure. Three of them dreaming now of barns, of haystacks and warm crusts of bread as the car shifts, lunges deeper into the road, moves warmer to the dark. The driver keeping watch, looking hard for the constant threat to these four women on the road. Tired? Beyond it. Morning is further away than she ever thought possible. What if she just turned off the road?