We barrel down washed-out asphalt. The mile ahead shimmers
and buckles. A white humid haze covers baked fields, the red dust lofts behind plows
churning up futility. Our passing whips the leaves of trees, their silvered undersides
turned up as if in prayer. At the exit ramp, crepe myrtles drip red.
July 7, Day 3
of 100 Days of Summer.
Paint the town
red.We travel south, in one of the hottest days of the summer. Peace...
Now THAT looks hots. To me there's something nostalgic about seeing heat mirages on summer highways. Hope you had a nice trip and the air con was working.
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