Western Roads

by Vernie Lynn DeMille

Sun-bleached macadam,

Flecked with red dirt and dried green manure,

Buckles, cracks, sways, and settles

On land that refuses to remain still.

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Ombre blue shades of distant mountains,

Rising above flat valleys of willow, sand,  and sage,

Beckon travelers to the vanishing point.

Where the road ends and begins again,

Each mile a place of greeting and farewell.

Cold rain, falling through warm air

And dragging cloud tendrils with it,

Disappears into rivers hidden beneath the crust

Of alkali flats and brave halophytes.

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Electricity traveling along backroads,

Oustripping trucks and tractors as it speeds through cables

On the shoulders of iron giants,

Guarantees that those who tap its power

Are not beholden to the light of the moon and sun.

Though the cycle of seasons still rule their fortunes.

The skeletons of cattle, coyotes, and windblown billboards

Line the edges of the highway.

They stand, and fall, as testament

To the close proximity life and death keep

With big dreams and uncertain promises.

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Light rims the edge of clouds,

Paves the roads,

And fills the eyes

Of those looking for treasure in the hills and rivers of the west.

An elusive mirage that fuels the dreams of modern day forty-niners,

Searching the ground for drops of gold that only the sun provides.

I drive,  nostrils full of the scent

Of rain, sunlight, creosote, and sage,

Along the same roads I’ve traveled

Enough times to have gone around the globe.

Twice.

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People ask me where I’m from

When I make the long drive

From the ranch to anywhere else at all

Along these western roads.

“The middle of nowhere,” I say,

“And the center of everything.”

The place I’m always heading,

No matter how far I go.

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September 10, 2023