The November chill greeted me as I opened my door. Not vicious, but apparent. The road had been mine alone for some distance now. An old motel, a prohibition era gas station, the ruins from a better time for this highway. This season is so forgiving. Shadows soften under the clouded daylight, the starkness of the land as it waits for the coming cold, steady silence blankets these far flung fields. A song played from the old cars radio. It’s softness barely gliding over the warm toned grasses as I stood and watched starlings sweep and gather in the cooling sky. “.... a clock on the wall, and it counts my time.”. I shift in my old army jacket, not from the cold, but from memories I’d much rather have hibernate. A calling crow, the setting sun, a long road. I settle into the seat again, turn the key, and the moment is over. The snap of old gravel under the tires as I face the road, paying my penance among the ruins of the past mile by mile.