That’s it.
Ahhh, that’s it. That’s America.
Sweeping down the long stretches of pavement, darkening air damp with the unmistakable scent of freshly-mowed grass. And all scents of spring color my thought. Mossy dead water. A skunk passed here. Freshly washed clothes out to dry. I push harder uphill, into a current of sweetness. The SUV’s zip by, sound more of an impression than sight, gliding over segments of weathered black putty, bap-brap, bap-brap, bap-brap.