Beyond the wind against the lake, beyond that sound or lack thereof, beyond that space where emptiness becomes full and thought-worthy; beyond this, a new space, a new area of space, empty space, space that takes up no space has arisen. Maybe it took growing up with the road being the stepping stones to that new area, space-less-ness, openness, delimited, unlimited heaven. The wind rushes, races, flows, unwinds through the trees into this stream of man-made concerts. I think I hear a car, I get ready to move to the side, only to be confronted with a vehicle of breeze instead. What is it called when your body is so prepared for the human crash, that the breath from a leaf on a branch, in a tree, on the earth, caresses the same encouragement to the side? I imagine an invisible car not made out of steel or metal. Made out of the flow of air that a creator supposedly breathes. The earth trembles, the trees of lungs, of a big barreled chest inhales and pushes out the wind breezy, invisible car, automobile, vehicles. Transportations, surfboard on the open-air racer, I never want to leave this empty one-lane highway again. Ever. The bullfrogs croak the orange newts -not salamanders- will start crossing later. The crickets crick and jets fly low beneath. I wonder who else knows about this highway besides my best friend named “wind.” Who else spreads their wings to fly over here. I think about all my favorite places and people. Sounds, colors, and midnight tales, motion, and stillness, breathing in and out versus holding it. Has my best friend “wind”’ always visited me and I just never noticed? The wind sings in its impossible, solely collaborative, with a solo or individualistic chorus, and I listen. Tonight, I listen.