Clay roads rainbowed behind us. Whether or not to strip the beds. All night I waited for the three o'clock train to wake me. I lay awake. Afternoon drive to the library.
Curtains blow through roadside windows.
Flags, but not flags, really. Because the side of the road is nobody's. Or the side of the road is everyone's, where we all blow, fragile and flailing. Not that we can communicate through this wind, not that we can make out a word, still, sending my love, I wave. It's a whole new language, this meaning with green and a river flowing toward me and on.