my foot brushes against the hot sand

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my foot brushes against hot sand

the road at my feet is bare

what bits of gravel left kicked to the sides

ruts continuing around the bend

the road is well traveled



as it winds through the country

small white farmhouses

mingling with rolling wheat fields


the scalding asphalt

sits in the middle of a jungle

forging a path through sky scrapers

shabby brick apartment buildings

revving engines and honking horns



numerous crossroads shoot out in all directions

I can take whichever one I want

and see something new on each street


two vastly different terrains lay ahead

waiting patiently for first steps


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