Sketched Out Roadways

Endless fields, I don't notice them anymore. I drive upon a video map of ever repeating memories. The land is flat, the horizon hardly changes, mile after mile the same white noise scratching eardrums. Radio on --- not listening, though somewhere in my head Brahms has just finished his fourth symphony, an empty sky sighs in my dry mouth. A dog is barking, a distant farm appears through a corn haze. Eyes back on the road again. the ever rolling-on road - its hypnotic hammer beats, occasionally switching channels in my mind.