Most of the time it isn’t what you see, but how you see it.
For me, the bloody orange wrinkled muscular rock; rain clouds dissolving like water-color from the sky; a tin can light bent backwards through raindrops on the window; the rattled road; the tunnel without lights; someone in the car talking; wind wiping the windshield; three pairs of feet in the backseat’s dimness; coming home or leaving, and whoever is driving, and wherever, and all of us creatures, whatever we are . . . and how long . . .