High ridges disappear in fog, make me wish I was born of water. At the divide, I taste the cool ocean air, the way a deer finds a salt lick, and roller coaster down a narrow road that does not believe in a straight line. Blackberry vines crawl through barbwire fences.
Small towns occur like a whim.
As if in a coma, they merely survive. I tune in the only station and listen to country western. Static gradually drowns the singer out. Rounding a corner, he pops to the surface for another breath, merely to sink back still singing. Fir shadows lace the road.