Upon the blacktop, the asphalt river, flowed cars into a hearth horizon.
A blacktop ribbon of sun-warmed asphalt rolled through the golden ears and onward to the farmhouse.
The blacktop invited the soles to wander up to the ridge-line and see what lay beyond.
The asphalt made such a smooth black river, the sort wheels float so effortlessly along. And so as our car made its steady way along, the scenery took on an almost meditative quality, the light igniting the hues of each tree and home.
The asphalt was a glossy black, like a wet photograph. In that moment Lila imagined the street in a nostalgic monochrome, keeping safe that moment she and Josh made their way home in the light wintry rain, smiling so brightly that the cold didn't matter.