I won’t write another sad shadowed story about how I’ve missed riding along with the breeze. I’ve already said how much of a joy it has been. I’ve already expressed how nice it is to see the highway through windblown and happy eyes. I’ve already confessed I have wanderlust and a need to lick my lips and taste the sea and mountain air. I’ve already mentioned the mystery to me of never tiring of the next sweeping corner bordered by rivers and railroad tracks. I’ve already thought about all the miles gone by and how long ago and far away they now seem. No, I won’t pine the void, the emptiness and vacancy. It only crosses my mind just before sleep and right after waking and sometimes when the sky is gray.
Memories that go unnourished get hungry for reminders. Thoughts of yesterday’s roads begin to fade, merge and are embellished. It seems it was a southbound highway where I saw that breathtaking expanse, or possibly it was another road I chose that day where the sky and the distance were indistinguishable. And on that same afternoon, above me, a cast of hawks played in the updraft flap-less and flirting.
It could have been a Tuesday leaving a small town catching site of a freshly tilled parcel of land. A tractor idled peacefully at the far end of perfect geometric rows. Its dust cloud had dissipated into the air and the only sound was my motor and the wind. As I rode by, I smiled because I knew I would remember this scene and others just as rustic and picturesque.
It really doesn’t matter what road or which day. As sure as the winter will blend into spring, fresh memories of new rides will soon mix together. I know all those upcoming site and sounds are all lined up, ready to burst upon the scene. Like the birds in the trees, they’re poised and waiting in the wings like me, just waiting for the spring.