I was heading east about ten years ago, having slept little in a motel room in Wells, NV. The Pequop Mountains rolled past, and the Toana Range, and their pinyons and junipers made me long to sleep beneath them, a dangerous sentiment.

I stopped in Wendover for coffee.

Out on the salt flats the dawn twilight began to leaven, color seeping into the colorless land. I found myself driving a trifle over the legal limit. Fifty miles away the Cedar Mountains were backlit, a white sky behind them signaling the impending rise of the Star Nearest Earth, and I thought to myself that perhaps I could keep the sun there if I drove faster. After all, the apparent height of the Cedars was a function of my distance. The closer I was, the taller they’d be, and if I could just approach them fast enough the mountains would rise faster than the sun.

A nice plan, a logical plan, and yet a plan to which my four-cylinder Japanese pickup was not particularly equal. I think I made about 130, there, on that straightest, flattest, emptiest, most un-policed stretch of Interstate 80, windows open despite the drag, stereo turned up loud against the wind, and despite the appealing triteness of the setup the sun rose faster than I could rise the mountains.

I kept going anyway. This is the song that started playing as the first edge of sun streamed over the Cedar Mountains. For the full effect turn it way up, aim a fan at your face and turn it to maximum, then toss some salt into it.

1. 
   Dana 2009 08 10 at 9:15:01 pm

   I was just thinking about how music, and poetry, are placeholders. They mark where we were, are and might be again, both metaphorically and literally. I like how make this piece one of place, positioning it in a specific moment in your life.