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Show Moon - 232 streams crash around the rocks and the trails fall into sudden cliffs. I call Josh from a truck stop in Elmira to remind him of these things, but he isn't home. It's my second day on the road. Gone is the easy swooping dance of freeway driving, for the semi trucks seem to have taken over the world. These drivers used to be the best, but now they'll pull out into your lane and crowd you back, or zoom right up to your bumper like enraged elephants. There's no margin for mistakes, blown tires, or vapor locks. If I thought about the inches I ride from certain death, Td be unable to move, so I unfocus my eyes and let the lumbering giants have their way with the road. I try to look into the weeks since I've left Josh to see if a pattern is emerging, but I'm too close to the crazy quilt of trips and can't seem to think in an orderly way. There's something mind-numbing about the succession of look-alike truck stops and the strict symmetry of the road, the sameness of the signs, as if highway systems conspired to take the art out of our vision. It becomes difficult to see loops and swirls and undulations, to see designs that flow beneath the overlay of control. But I think a deeper design is very much alive. For one thing, my period is long overdue, and it's odd, but I'm not waking up any longer at three a.m. There's been a fundamental shift in the system, an uprising, but I'm not sure what it means. I'm roadworn by the time I make it to the cottage, but my heart lifts at the sight of the trees around the lake, which are settled into the dark serious green of summer. The expanse of unmowed lawn to the lake is the sort of place I ought to gallop Windfall, let her go full out, let everything go if only I were brave enough. I'm nervous about coming here, where I haven't been since James died. I haven't seen my brothers since then, either, and I've missed them, |