12/18/2020
Floyd
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Death Valley Highway
Everything is whirring, flowing in heavy waves through the scorching expanse of the valley. Had there been warning signs? The road seems to swim straight into the endless. The axle of the rusty Russian pedal car groans monotonously. I smell the remnants of oil on the chain, as the rubber tires fade into the tar, which moves downhill in slow motion and steams coarsely fragrant like a lava flow, incorporating everything that was still alive there, the freshness of hops, the fine spice and beavers in silver stripes.
It burns the cedars that give shade, in my fever on the horizon. And the sky hangs honey-yellow and high, that it long only colors before it falls, yet only undulates in heat-shimmering threads above the liquid road. It is the filter of my sunglasses, adding some warmth to the glowing tar. I grin. Think of a beeswax candle in an oil tank. And while around it, too, the earth burns, the beaver strips and car tires, spices and cinnamon still swirl in the sand, far away the desert wind carries them into a brown bread with benzoin, a mirage on the highway, somewhere in Death Valley.
(With thanks to Lucy55)
It burns the cedars that give shade, in my fever on the horizon. And the sky hangs honey-yellow and high, that it long only colors before it falls, yet only undulates in heat-shimmering threads above the liquid road. It is the filter of my sunglasses, adding some warmth to the glowing tar. I grin. Think of a beeswax candle in an oil tank. And while around it, too, the earth burns, the beaver strips and car tires, spices and cinnamon still swirl in the sand, far away the desert wind carries them into a brown bread with benzoin, a mirage on the highway, somewhere in Death Valley.
(With thanks to Lucy55)
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Rachelg
