The moment when two of my favorite things, storms and dirt roads, come together is irreplaceable. The rain pattering on the windshield. The thunks of mud from the tires. The drama in the sky and the play of light and shadow on the landscape. My little writer’s brain fills with scenes of cowboys in bright yellow slickers riding for home as the water sluices off their hats into the horses’ manes.
Or lost travelers seeking shelter before the real storm hits. It’s too late, but they don’t know that.
Perhaps a lone man with an empty backpack walking into the unknown. He’s miles from anyone or anything, yet even the squelch of his sodden boots and the cold rain streaming through his beard can’t stop him from smiling.
In these moments, the one going off into the unknown is myself — if I decide follow one of those characters down a muddy dirt road. Who knows what we’ll find… or what will find us.
The image of the man with the backpack intrigues me. Why is it empty? What makes him smile in the face of the storm?
Maybe I’ll follow him for a while and find out.
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