At the crossroads below my hotel window, the lights go from red to green in the inky black. Lives speed through or wait or turn, each disappearing into the the night; the boyfriend heading to his girl's house. The weary shift worker thinking about bed. The drunk thinking about back roads. Asphalt underneath. Neon over head. Concrete either side.
Next morning I'm standing on an outcrop of Souix quartzite that juts
out of the grass prairie. The Tallgrass stretches far off into an
overcast horizon. Grey watercolor clouds gradiate into each other
forming a loose rippling blanket over the swaying green. Once or twice, a
lone Bur Oak will reach up, punctuating the seam of grass and sky. On
the low humming breeze, birdsong wafts in and out of earshot. Insect
wings flutter from flower to leaf, bud to green blade. All together,
it's an aural color-palette that demands silence in order to be heard.
The noise of a restless mind is enough to obscure it. No crossroads
here. No need for one, when all you have to do is stop.