Sitting in traffic between Indianapolis and Terre Haute, looking out across cornfields under a greyed sky. One flash. Two flashes. Dawayne is still talking on the phone.
“We’ve been writing a lot’ I say, still seeking the source of the lightning on the skyline.
‘Is that so?’ he says, in a laconic drawl that makes me think of a smiling dog playing poker. ‘You know, when the old traveling bands used to drive around, they’d write about what they saw..’
Lightning in the distance
The traffic still wasn’t moving but he the clouds were. Changing colour.
The bars on my phone were fading. His voice disassembled into robotic for a moment.
By the roadside selling visions
The electrical interference released his voice. ‘So I guess what you’re telling me is that you’re feeling inspired then.’ I could even hear him grin.
‘Yeah. I guess so.’