When I go out there. I’m looking for the long road — what’s out there, the long running. Like any road, really, can you see to the end of it?
Out on the prairie — the long reach of the emerging fields, some just beginning, others fully flush with green, or grain, or gold; the slick black of the long run, road, heading into the mist. And even beyond that — out there, I know where I’m going. Into the next step. Being here, and out there, at the same time. Stride on. The road is meant to be rode.
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