Because I was driving, not flying, I passed Home of the Best Gummy Bears in the World, and I entered briefly the bright theater of childhood, then returned once again to these fields, flat and frosted. Hours of this. Maybe a shack, weather-worn outbuildings, plazas for fueling and feeding, bare trees and two blank billboards so I wondered what anyone could possibly say. A windowless building set far back on tar, cut off like a prison. Because I was driving, not flying, I thought of the nameless the lonely the trapped for whom life was just more long highway. I thought of the ones who might never know even this crossing of flatlands. Who might never get out, who might never arrive at this dropping of late-day sun—inside towers and brick, rust cylinders and grids, box cars, machinery and trucks. Who might never believe what can only be mercy—that even the grayest cement stands to glow.