Dusty Rose in the Rearview Mirror

Fifteen minutes from my apartment is a stretch of rural highway like a green corridor. It runs between a forested hill and the winding river weaving in and out of view, with the occasional farmhouse and dirt road branching off. The speed limit is 50, but when I drive along this five mile stretch I go somewhere between 40 and 45, because it's so pretty and I want to drive slow enough to see everything. About five miles from where I get on this particular rural highway, there is a historical landmark with a turn-off for parking. I come here, sometimes, when I need to just sit and think, to brainstorm whatever project I'm working on. It's 8:50 pm. The sun is low, behind the gathering clouds, but not set yet so it's still light enough to read. An early twilight color, the faintest blue filter. The olive brown river flows slowly, just twenty feet away from the turn-off, on the other side of a band of young trees and tall grass. This part of the state is all forested hills with little…