Turning north at West Memphis, I breathe a bit easier. The air seems lighter, the skies clearer. An ordinary trip driven countless times now fortifies me, replenishes memories, helps me remember.
A crop duster tilts his yellow wing in my direction, then turns and dips before misting fertilizer across winter wheat. Like crocus pushing through the cold, he is a first sign of spring. To dazed travelers and long-haul truckers, the flat landscape appears dead and dull, yet I know life churns beneath wet fields.
In the distance, a recent thunderstorm hovers over the Mississippi River. Clouds hang heavy and purple.
talya
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