It’s a drive thats hard-wired into me, each turn so ingrained, that if I was blindfolded I’d know I was being delivered there.
It’s the kind of drive that demands the windows are rolled down, and shoes are kicked off as soon as the truck tires hit the dirt and washboard. You bounce down the overgrown road, passing cows and windmills and curved rows of alfalfa.
It’s a drive that transports you into a twangy country song—our black lab even hangs out the truck window, ears flopping and cheeks puffing out in the wind.
It’s the Eastern plains of Colorado, a place less revered than those purple-mountains-majesty. But when the sun sinks low, and everything is lit up in gold the color of autumn hay, it makes you quiet and peaceful, just like the sight of those peaks.
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© Cayla Vidmar July 19, 2016