Friday, February 12, 2016

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 

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