Yes, sound, not flight, will prevail through.

Bold strokes short of stem rooted chokes permit these words.

After dawn I come alive, I come to mind, trace markings will allow time.

Dew spreads soft as pinholes, entwined in grass roots, pine needles placid on their green threads.

The highways, at a stand still, frozen between time and space. Energy arcing from one exit to the next. The light to my world intersecting with the chill to yours. Yet knowledge to understand the bond we share relentlessly seeks to never stop there.

Skin, mint, heart, weights, head, a seat buckle soaked in the afternoon sun.

It is all too close to breathing. Eyes, all too close to seeing, to smelling, to telling.

The open road decorated with orange and gold. Adorning that asphalt we knowingly suppress in our time of stress.

That asphalt, too hot in the afternoon sun.

Burning.