Wind streaks rain across the windshield as she drives to an office supply store, the foothills blue and snowy, respite from spring melt. A boring pop song on the radio and she longs for when radio was alive, when she sat by her AM transistor late at night, skipping stations across the country, catching what she could through the crackle of weather.
That was before Colorado, before Oregon, before Wyoming, long before now. Before she began to comprehend the isolation of mountains and desert. Then, green touched green, the air hung close in around everyone, and music was born out of humidity, sweat, and water.
She hums a fragment of an old blues as she heads back into traffic. More rain; the gray, brown, tan, the colors of cars, raw earth of new construction—wet and blurred now. The hum becomes a song becomes her voice as she sings with the rhythm of the road, faster now on a freeway heading home.
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