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Driving A Greyhound West

I travel with the sun.
It passes me.
I drive into the night
And find the moon.
My headlamps
Wet the dark with light.

Above the hiss of
Asphalt rune,
I ride on high.
I guide the wheel.
Across the stars
And blackened fields.

The motor chants
At my command:
“Whither Thou Wilst--
For Thou art Lord
Of this Great Engine,
Over All
Of this Great Land.”

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Cydonia photo: ESA

This is the journal of David Ross
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