Moonrise on the road to Yosemite.

I knew it would be rising soon, I had been watching it rise and grow, the week before, together we were anticipating this little jaunt.

 It did come from below, like this time it really was rising, like this was the time I could know why I had always said rising.

This road was going to the moon, the headlights wouldn't have been seen on its surface, lost in its brush-strokes. Tungstens and oxides and halogen all slapped onto calico,  ochres and rust and brighter for its immediacy to the horizon.

The gas gauge was pointed up, the warm air from the heater mixing with the cool night and cigarettes.

And soon the gauge was up again...feet slapping on concrete and linoleum of  a gas station floor.

Written in my 2002 journal.