shane bolitho

~
Humming past fields of forever, yellow stubble and distant stands of tamarack and spruce, under an impossible sky, slumping hay-bales marking invisible grids across the prairie rise and fall. Mighty Sol stabs crepuscular blades of light through waves of muddy stratocumulus, through an insect-pocked and road-grimed windshield, and the yellow lines down the middle of the grey asphalt conveyor-belt slide away beneath them, a ribbon of morse-code nonsense across the countryside.
“Anytime at all, if you want to.”

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