There's a thirst in the long roads, the ones we don't build our homes around. Something older than the tar we've poured over the ground has started waking up and it's got a hunger in it that rain can't tame.
I've seen it creeping along the motorways ever so slow. You'll notice it when traffic's heaviest and there's no room for anybody to move more than an inch. It waits for the smaller things to get roadside, lured by whatever we toss out our windows.
It's harder to realise you've run something down when you're barely moving. The crunch of their little bones is so easily drowned out by our engines and that's when the old roads comes out.
Ever notice how roadkill doesn't bleed? It's always those shrivelled up little sacks of fur that you see and rarely anything fresh and dripping. The road soaks it all down and down and never-endingly down to depths we can barely imagine.
I've seen it creeping along the motorways ever so slow. You'll notice it when traffic's heaviest and there's no room for anybody to move more than an inch. It waits for the smaller things to get roadside, lured by whatever we toss out our windows.
It's harder to realise you've run something down when you're barely moving. The crunch of their little bones is so easily drowned out by our engines and that's when the old roads comes out.
Ever notice how roadkill doesn't bleed? It's always those shrivelled up little sacks of fur that you see and rarely anything fresh and dripping. The road soaks it all down and down and never-endingly down to depths we can barely imagine.
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