Atchison to Lawrence to Atchison

I drive. 

U.S. Highway 59. 

Five days a week, except for two weeks in December and all of June and July. 

Fifty-two miles each way and all four directions. 

Often in the dark; in some seasons, both ways.

If I'm running late, the flame engulfs my kitchen picture window, the College, St. Benedict's Church, and the Missouri River bluff in the distance.

Many mornings, a red ball in my windshield: the sun rising over the invisible Kaw River North of Lawrence. 

In Spring and Fall, moon and sun play pulley: tugging at each other: rise, set, an exercise in perspective.

I drive alone, but I am often visited: birds, the usual suspects, but occasionally a heron, a sparrow-hawk, red tail hawks, red winged blackbirds, white necked geese, bald eagles (three this year alone), days ago, a pheasant met its end on my passenger side headlight, once a meadowlark sat on barbed wire, the turkeys stand and hop and the turkey buzzards swirl and sway, and the trusty cardinals--always near; deer (including the athletic one that took out my side mirror and leapt away unharmed; coyotes (I keep a count); skunks (always dead but for their lasting revenge); the numerous farm dogs, cattle, goats, horses (an abundance of horses this time of year) and all the rest I keep an eye out for.

I drive. I think, look, listen, pray, occasionally losing it to grief, exhaustion, joy, anger, excitement, doubt or fear.

Always heading one way or the other.