The road is racing beneath me.
All of thelines that mark the center of the road
are blurring together.
I search forthe different license plates.
One from Nevada. Utah.
Even Wisconsin.
Itmakes the U.S. seem so small.
It's amazing how similar the states are.
Wekeep passing vast, lush vineyards,
While Michael Stanley defines to us themeaning of highway life.
"Too few stop to pass the time, or so itgoes."
We've passed Lake Erie now.
On the very edge of the horizon wasa barge.
It was like something out of a bad children's coloring book.
I'manxious about driving.
Sometimes I people-watch from my backseatwindow.
Other times, I just let my eyes dart to whatever pulls theirattention.
Flocks of geese in their graceful V.
A street filled with BobEvans Restaurants.
Navy Seals in mini-vans.
Traffic jams in the middle ofnowhere.
Trucks full of Bibles.
Only on the road could you find thisentertainment.
In the immortal words of Michael Stanley,
"Maybe it'sback to the mountains,
Back to my place in the hills."
Untilthen,
we keep driving,
while I look out from my passenger seat and enjoyAmerica.






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