A highway’s back may be black, brown or tan, red, white or blue.
We name them after saints and music and Mother.
A highway’s makeup may be heavily applied and easy to see, or it may be worn thin. Her complexion may be smooth as silk or pitted and patchy. But the skin doesn’t tell the story. It’s how the road is dressed. She may wrap herself in the deep greens of a pine forest, or a gaudy suit of billboards and marquees.
Deeper than her skin, wider than her shoulders, her story unfolds for anybody willing to read her.
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