It's March and the rows of pecan trees we pass
are dry as the sandy ground. They stand,
unnatural dark pillars in a flat land of desert scrub.
Nothing else here comes above my waist.
We pass a train going east, we head west,
speeding 80 down Interstate 10, the semis
like old men carrying packs walk slower
while our young strangely fit 15-passenger van
sprints past reaching for more road.
Shouldn't it be impossible to move this
many miles in one day? My feet would take
weeks. My breathe and stomach can't catch up.
This hard asphalt knifes, dividing the
desert floor with a long trail of tar.
I want to stand on a distant mesa and become
part of the air, part of the wind that has been trying
mightily for hours to blow us off the road
and place our feet back onto its dusty kin.
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