WRITING
The smoke was back. There it was, off in the distance, this time over a field. It had moved. And, in another second, gone.
This week I had the lonely task of driving I-40 east from Memphis to Little Rock, a long, straight, and empty highway that stretches away from the Mississippi River. There, the land is flat. The road is simple. The sight lines afford views north and south until the tree lines interrupt them.
It’s empty here, mostly farmland, and the only elevations noticeable are the berms built up to allow for an overpass. Water collects in simple reservoirs for irrigation.
Ahead of my rental Chevrolet, pointed straight until it found the hills of Little Rock, I saw on the horizon what I thought at first must be a cloud–or perhaps, more accurately, a puff–of dark smoke. It didn’t act like smoke, though, given how it blew sideways across the interstate. The speed wasn’t right. Something was off.
Then, just as I blinked, the entire cloud disappeared. I thought I was in trouble, imagining things or worse, hallucinating, while driving out in the middle of nowhere. Immediately I tried to think back to what time I woke up that morning in Memphis, how much sleep I’d had, whether it was possible I was dreaming–
The smoke was back. There it was, off in the distance, this time over a field. It had moved. And, in another second, gone.