Transcendental Highway

Traveling the transcendental highway early in the morning, simply an extension of my daily yoga. The great semis zip by in both directions, like elephants on roller skates in the first light, only a flat tire away from disaster. Like a zen master I travel with the knowledge of a thousand days behind, in front of, around, on the curve effortlessly, without thought, immersed in thought, hitting my marks, Lakeville highway at 5:22, Highway 37 at 5:37. One little bead on a tail light chain, and sometimes other masters from a thousand trips will be recognized, and we will travel together for awhile, safe in the knowledge that no one will make the mistakes of the occasional traveler. On most days, however, this is a solitary trip, with body alert and automatic pilot on, the mind transcends time and space, and answers to old questions appear, poetry sprouts from magic synapses, and many times I have created a world of only me and you, and all the things that I should have said and done, could have said and done, are done, all in the limitless space between points A and B. The old Greek had it right. If you touch an infinitude of points, you'll never get there. But I am not that good yet and still skip a few points, and at 6:10 the stop light on Golf Course road interrupts the transcendental highway, and a more mundane day begins,