Skin splitting dry dustiness rises off the trail.

The dog gags and coughs up phlegm from his partially paralyzed throat.

Some sputum hangs from the hairs on his chin.  Fleeing a

storm in the Rockies, they stop at a rest area after moving steadily,

determinedly, resolutely through 345.5 miles

of fog only to step onto damp grass in the dog run.  The three of

them including the dog inhale humidity.

Quotes from Pulitzer Prize winning poets are etched, chiseled,

carved all around the rest area.  There’s more than

corn in Iowa, and Iowa wants travelers to know it.  Maybe it’s

something in the water. On the way back to

the car, he stops, looks up, feels the mist on his face, closes his

eyes, breathes deeply and the scent of

flowering lilac wafts up his nostrils. He is reminded of Orange

tree blossoms in the desert just the week before.

He opens his eyes and sees tiny droplets on his glasses. He

wonders how long it will be before he

misses the blinding brightness of the Southwest sun.

The dog doesn’t gag as he jumps into

the backseat.  They drive to outrun the tornadoes moving

northeast from Texas through the heartland

and then across the waters of Lake Michigan possibly knocking

on their back door if the dune doesn’t protect them.

At least they will be home by then to hunker down together.