Westward the Great Plains are lifting, as you
Can tell from the slight additional presure
The accelerator requires. The sun,
Man to man, stares you straight in the eye, and the
Ribbon of road, white, into the sun’s eye
Unspools. Wheat stubble long behind,
Now nothing but range land. But,
With tire song lulling like love, gaze riding white ribbon, forward
You plunge. Blur the burnt goldness
Past eye-edge on each
Side back-whirling, you arrow
Into the heart of hypnosis.
This is one way to write the history of America.
-Robert Penn Warren