Tales from Highway 90

Two lanes. Narrow shoulder too shallow really for a car. I pulled over all the way into the yellow grass that scorched on the exhaust and smelled sweet like some distant smoldering pinon fire drifting on the crisp fall air. Two lazy black tarantulas crossed the highway. One headed north the other headed south. Rain. Coming or going. It always sets them on the move. In the background the Chisos mountains severed the horizon with a jagged edge and soaked up the last blood orange sun of another 24 hours of my existence. Marathon, Tx in the rear view mirror, Springsteen's Ghost of Tom Joad and home 500 some odd miles away.