Contemplative Driving

Few go slower
than the allowed speed
on old country roads.
But the soft honey
sunset interrupts, painted
over the dirt and swaying stands
of gnarled mesquite
rimmed in prickly pear.
And the shock of beauty in barbed wire,
rusty against the green shoots
washed across the spring fields.
I know this maximum of hurry
is efficient in deadlines and destinations,
but the pace gnaws
as irreverent and misplaced.
I lift my foot
to a prayer.

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