Gravel isn't pretty, and neither is tar and chip--rudimentary surfaces for roads too peripheral to merit asphalt. My street ain't art, but it takes me to amazing places:
along the creek where sycamores stretch mottled branches to the sky, where kingfishers and herons stalk their prey while a catbird chatters in the bushes, where wild columbine bursts into fiery bloom on the bank,
and through woods ringing with the bell-like song of the wood thrush, where deer and foxes melt into the shadows, where fire pinks shine and spring rivulets run down stair-step waterfalls,
and past the cliff face where fresh rock-falls expose deep red and orange layers that will later dull to gray, where wild raspberries seek a foothold and stonecrop sends forth tiny white blossoms,
and beside the meadow where placid cows graze while swallows swoop and red-tailed hawks circle high above, where tall grass sparkles with early-morning dew and spiders repair their webs,
and, finally, my road leads back along the creek, across the bridge, up the hill, and right back where I started--home.