Descriptive Paragraphs8:00 PM
Out on the highway, the cars race by like lightning bugs—they flicker for a moment, and then they’re gone. It is nighttime, and the pervasive dark lies heavy and peaceful—everywhere except for the long endless highway, where the wide dirty trucks, high-beams on, roll through and cut the darkness down like tanks against barbed wire that offers little resistance.
I often wonder what it must be like to drive down there, look up after miles of tall rocky uninhabited hillocks and foothills, and see a small but self-assured light coming out of a window in a house—the only house, I think, for miles. It is my light, my window, and my house. Do they down there, in their too-quick-to-stop cars, take a moment to pause and wonder who lives there? I would not know, because like lightning-bugs, they flicker for a moment, and then they’re gone.