Tarmac blood in a ribbon vein, running on top of a French landscape, sunshine and no rain; a scar I like to call the D338. Sunflower crowds that move together, follow the Sun as if loose feathers in the wind.
Doorway women squint into the sky, their aprons tied tight to their waist side pockets, deep with recipes scribbled on paper and the keys to their acre behind the family's tin pan roof.
Settle your back back into your seat, strap in to keep in line your broken spine, keep concrete eyes on the foundation skyline; for this is the road that sits upon an alter, the holy shrine of France.