"Standin' at the crossroad's, baby
rides a car goin' down."
Robert Johnson "Crossroads Blues"
Never a use for sunglasses.
Day is not so illuminating
as night.
Cross-country adventures
exposed to the wonder
and hazards of both,
always chose darkness
when possible.
After analysis, determination
developed slow,
like erosion formed dirt-gulleys
that devoured earth
along side his way.
Something about color,
when eyes would stray
everything seemed washed in white.
Sunglasses couldn't alter effect,
just change the shade.
This morning, unbearable bright
shrouded ridges, slopes, and fields
beneath unblemished linen.
Heavy eyes careened
between instruments, windshield
and hood, only partially regarding
asphalt or paint.
White on white
circles formed.
Depth became vague
as tunnels branched before him
dislocating senses.
Time, distance, speed
all became notions
unreal.
His head swiveled back and forth
frantically searching for something,
anything that might mark his path,
when a black understanding
clutched at his shoulders.
Cold talons seemed strong enough
to lift his entire body,
but pain of revelation
sufficient to crush him,
drive him down, down, down.
With eyes that could see
he stared at the rushing river
it's clever disguise, all this time,
always the back of the beast.
This road he'd traveled for years
was nothing more
than a dragons spine,
and at journeys end,
all highways would intersect
at a mouthful of fiery liquid death.
He also knew that his salvation lay
not within destructive drive,
but on fertile parallel pastures.
"Well, man..." he said to himself
"Looks like you've got a choice to make."
"Yep" .
The car nosed into a parking lot a few minutes later,
left to idle,
then kicked gravel in departure.
Tilted rearview reflected a sandy image
that reached over and tuned into radio Reno,
wearing a pair of imitation Ray-Bans.
"I think I'm going to need these, now."
SM