Transportation: a vital part of American culture.
We live in suburbs, in subdivisions, in houses.
Houses that run along streets, avenues, courts.
Streets that connect to roads, intersections, highways and interchanges.
We travel inside our private soap bubbles;
windows closed tight, as the air conditioner or heater giving us perfect climate control.
Radio cranks out our own favorite jukebox songs.
Or tuned to talk: sports talk, business talk, international talk, political talk.
We drive with purpose:
there is always someplace to go, somewhere to be,
someone to drop off, someone to pick-up.
We drive too fast, we drive too slow.
We curse, we honk, we throw up our arms in disgust.
We ignore our neighbors on the right and left at the intersection, pretending to fiddle with the radio,
or worse, check our phones for texts.
We turn and talk to our passenger, and the car begins to drift to the right.
We look in the Mommy mirror to talk to the kids, and almost run the red light.
We talk on our cells, and we practically plow down the pedestrian trying to bravely, like the proverbial chicken,
to cross the road.
We love our cars, and we love the freedom of owning and driving a car.
But, I often wish:
I lived in a small town where I could hop on my bicycle and ride down the trail to buy a loaf of bread,
waving to my neighbors as I tuck the warm loaf into my basket. Feeling the breeze cool my face,
as I pedal through the warm sunlight,
no sounds, but the songs of birds in the trees.