Sonoma Valley Commute, nearly spring

This drive home, three months and counting, each curve of the road becoming memory and muscle reaction now. Tonight the twilight is longer, still dusk at the start of the drive; headlights a setting not necessity till the last few miles.

Vineyards and darkening cow-shapes, hill outlines becoming so much clearer than the colors or the specifics along the way, bright mustard fields under the grapevines fading half way home.

I'm rolling my windows down - radio turned off, no news, no music, just the road noise and the smells of the farmland rushing by.

This strange place sinking into me, working its way toward home.

A home, once a home, soon a home, some day a memory of home. I am half desperate seeking this thing called home. How and I going to know I'm there when I get there?

Too many, one more, maybe this time, home.