I wear my city boots on these gravel roads. Red patent leather coated in dust kick up stones like they own the place. Like they invented walking.
There is a world of difference between the Portland airport and the main drag of Shoal Lake, PDX versus rural MB, “keep it weird” meets "git ‘er dun”.
Although I could never live here, the lines and the light fire the Broca’s area of my brain, where words are said to live. It notes the way perfectly spaced rows of stubble crest at the sky, where the silhouette of a pair of nesting geese keeps guard over the sunset. It ponders the way the gravel road curves down from the abandoned homestead, around the lake, to the old Polish graveyard where strange names hide the hopes of generations.
My feet refuse to switch from city to rural time. My boot heels continue to strike the gravel as forcefully as they once did the pavement. My mind, though, crawls back to another time until the gravel turns to memories under truck tires headed west.