Highway 30 Revisted

Brown grass on the shoulders of Highway 30. Cornfields empty. Water on mud. Electric wires hang over farm houses, grain silos, and rusted sheds.

Semis pass by in the left lane. Skies are dark. A sign on a church reads, Jesus Is Lord. Pine trees bunched together.

The man seated in front of me speaks Spanish on his cellphone. He ruffles through a McDonald’s paper bag. Pulls a long, thin fry out. He eats it hungrily while looking out the window at bare trees, a yellow moon, headlights coming towards us.

The woman to my right has fake eyelashes that curl up exposing brown eyes. An overhead light shines on her brown skin. She’s wearing fake fur. She also looks out the window. Night has come.

The bus is mostly quiet. Whispers are barely heard. This is America. A stop light glows. We have come to a stop. The rain begins. Highway 30 sparkles.

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