Last dream upon waking to grade: I was in Texas with work to do and places to go pronto. But every day at 3 p.m. I would pause down by a highway overpass to watch a long convoy of white utility-sided pickups loaded with 20-foot tall cones of pink blossoms roll by. The blooms blew like clouds off the cones for a mile, and it was such a sight that I would go about town gathering strangers to come with me to see. Day after day we went there to watch, never knowing the kind of flower or the trucks’ destination. Beauty here and somewhere ahead, that’s all we knew. Here and somewhere ahead.
Clearly, no matter how worrisome or tiresome existence gets beneath the boot heels of late-modern crumbling capitalism, there is always at least one mystery unfolding nearby. If a soul can manage to ease into the slipstream of that and draft for a part of each trip around the sun? Even the boot heels may lose some force, just enough anyway that a fleeting glimpse can be stolen of the road here and ahead. Here and somewhere ahead.
