Flash by in rows, repeatedly.
Stifling, the scent of false industry
Sweats along the country roads.
A mirage of a farmhand straightens up.
Sprawling road kill. Shreds of tires, unassuming.
First shards of LA, and anticlimactic.
Cars congregate-stop and go-
Shadows lengthen, the highway’s hum turns to an unforgiving lull.
You are forced to imagine the fragile ecosystems
A state line is crossed. Street signs change,
And people with them.
Because everyone has forgotten napkins.
In the morning: Rolling hills turn to mesas.
Heat rises in waves of invisible striving toward the sky.
Faceless horizons turn to dust.
By Stella Pfahler
Stella Pfahler is a Bay Area native who attends RASOTA for Creative Writing. She is a circus freak, enjoys surfing, and she plays the saxophone.
Art by Fiona McDonald