You could drive blindfor those two secondsand they would be forever.I think that as a diesel truckpasses us eight miles east of Mission.Churning through the storm, heedlessof the hill sliding away.There isn't much use to curse but I do.Words fly away, tumbling invisiblytoward the unseen point wherethe prairie and sky meet.The road is like that in those seconds,nothing but the blind white sideof creation.
You're there somewhere,a tiny struggling cell.You just might be significantbut you might not be anything.Forever is a space of split timefrom which to recover after the mass passes.My curse flies out there somewhere,and then I send my prayer into the wakeof the diesel truck headed for Sioux Fallsone hundred and eighty miles through the storm.
