Dust Devils




Dust devil off Route 50 in Nevada, June 2015  (photo: Jan Barry)

 

Route 50 across Nevada,

“Loneliest highway in America,”

They say. No cars or trucks in sight

As I pull to the side for a pit stop.

A dust devil is rising to the north

Way out over Willow Creek Ranch,

As I pee on a  sage bush

Near the sign at the cattle gate.

By my feet, a rusted tin can,

Broken remains of a beer bottle,

Cigarette butts crushed in the sand.

How many times I’ve been

On some road, traveling alone.

I enjoy the silence,

The views, the timelessness,

Communing with Nature.

Soon enough I’ll be back

Amid friends and family,

The whirl of daily life.

 Water spouts swirl to the south.

A ring of magnificent mountains

Embraces the desert basin.

Generations of travelers

Have trekked through here,

Seeking something else.

I’m on the road again,

Looking for the meaning of life.

A dust devil dances

Across the desert

And across the highway,

A whirling dervish

Swirling in front of the car,

Suddenly a bronze-gray ghost

I drive through.

 

--Jan Barry