Driving Home

Coming Home (Day is Done)

Another day is done.

Driving. Driving through the main thoroughfare of this town, and left and a right brings me to the downtown square.

Verily, a long Monday. I arrived to work only a few minutes before the stroke of eight in the morning and I depart for home only a few minutes before eight in the evening. ‘Tis been a long day.

Down one side street and around a curve, soon I’m hurtling along the backroads that curl and weave my way home. Pastoral countryside rushes past my window, and I squint my eyes into the rapidly setting Sun.

Jazz oozes coolly from the radio, a perfect soundtrack to this journey, every bump of the blacktop kicks in time to the bop and beat of the irregular rhythm. The hot blare of the horns is the sound of the dying of the day.

A man speaks on the radio, gives the time and temperature on this last day of August. With the windows down and my left hand leaning idly out, I notice the coolness of the air. Four weeks ago the nights were still steamy breaths, but another turn of the Seasons is upon us.

Blurring clouds in the Sunset sky tints the earth in golden hues, a foretaste of Autumn still to come. A small serrated whirl of leaves skitter across the roadway in the wake of my speeding transport.

Soon, I am home.


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