Gristly cast-offs spontaneously spawn, like sprouts on a spud, forgiving their makers with only the dust of the garden or farm.  These dirt roads called for nothing but a little sparkle of gravel along the way, but you couldn’t help call out for me, for more.  What if only the past heard you, and not the future?

Not many roads went on this long. This one was a sneaking sandy son-of-a-bitch from the get-go.  There wasn’t much to learn along it, just tufts of grass and weeds and trash, and wanna-be mile markers staring at the sky.  Often the bottles could not even finish breaking, and pointed open-mouthed at the little roll of a shoulder lumping along, or down the embankment towards the ditch.  Some sludge sometimes crawled up from the ditch and splashed across the road, too, spurting its flat elongated limbs and fingers in muddy viscous graffiti almost to the median.

A lonely road is obvious and long, can’t help but induce your company into its solitude usually to misery, but doesn’t tell you why it’s so lonely.  Curves ahead might be dangerous, but they tell a little about its character; lonely roads don’t talk, but ramble on.