I-8o East. 8 o’clock pm. We have entered Iowa. I have lost track of time. The sun is still shining, beating on my left side and sunburn has set into my right shoulder. I drove a tank of gas–mostly through Nebraska–which was not all too thrilling–a flat expanse of green earth and farms with empty streets and skies and a quiet that could make a person go wild and deaf. But, in the back of the convertible, time does not exist. Day continues to encompass us, clear and bright and I am awed and enthralled by all this corn. Something so simple as corn–commonplace to my perspective (and I’ll admit, the state of Iowa to feel the same) has taken my by surprise. We are diving at 75 mph. The top is down, this wind has been dancing with my hair all day. It’s knotted at the root and even as I’m writing this am looking through brown locks. But the corn..the corn is entrancing. Endless golden lines, bristling in the wind, stretching from the side of the road to the horizon, wrapping with the curves of the hills into labyrinths. This is the stuff this country is physically made of, just as I have brown hair and the imprint of the sun and time and travel on my skin. Corn.