First day of March

I am driving south as the cast of the sun sinks lower and the color intensifies - the one spot of warmth, of spectral glowing over the barren fields, bleak stands of trees, disheveled farm buildings, Chebanse at 304, the endless dashes of white paint. It is lovely as it falls, however much the windshield glares and my right eye waters, but then in an instant it is split by a cloud and falls below the horizon - into the nothingness of orbit - and the sky darkens, the land is obscured, and all I can do is follow the white dashes, leading onwards - inevitable and endless.