The rain started somewhere after the pavement narrowed. Not a storm, exactly—just enough water to turn every cedar dark and make the road look newly drawn.
We stopped where the shoulder opened toward the river. Coffee from the thermos tasted faintly of yesterday’s roast, and the whole valley had gone quiet except for water moving over stone.
The record for the road
Some albums ask for your attention. Others change the air without announcing themselves. This one did the latter, leaving room for the tires, the rain, and the long gaps in conversation.
A good drive is not measured in miles. It is measured in how slowly the day returns to you afterward.
At the lake, the clouds never lifted. That turned out to be the photograph: not the view beyond the weather, but the weather itself.
