Life a band of gypsies
we go down the highway
— w. hugh nelson
Mo is standing in the middle of a desolate highway, trying to capture the essence of what a road leading into an endless panorama looks like. No, it can’t be done. You have to be there.
A pickup pulls up from the other direction. A rancher parks at the gate in front of the dirt road leading into his land. He moseys out of his pickup and looks at her curiously.
Mo explains that she’s shooting photos of the road. I’m guessing he has no idea why, but folks around here are pretty accepting.
Mo jokes that she wishes she could take his road, a little caliche trail into cattle country. He pauses and seems to consider the notion, so Mo saves him and says we have to be heading home.
He nods. Drive safe, he says.
Before he leaves, he picks up a couple of discarded 7-Up bottles tossed by people who apparently did not get the “Don’t mess with Texas” memo. From his casual motions, it looks like he does it a lot.
Mo walks back to the car, picking up a stray Muscle Milk container on the way. Just because.
He drives down the little road, a trail of West Texas dust rising behind him. We head home toward a wasteland of 5 million people.
I wish we could take his road too.