RSS 
Racetrack
I hear the far off drone of a racetrack: the roar of engines, occasional squeals of tires, and also the wind lifting these sounds to my ears. Odometers across the city are clicking to the next mile and wheels are spinning, spinning, spinning, but cars aren’t moving. Wheels are spinning in icy grooves, past bent mailboxes, and at the edges of lonely stretches of white highway. Before giving in, each driver steps one last step and it’s a squealing, venomous roar. Wheels ignite patches of dark like a match and tracks are lit into infinite loops. Rather than fire, a roar of sound is birthed above the loops. The bellowing moves freely through the snow. The abandoned cars are symbols of failed technology, failed plans, failed normalcy. But that roar… that roar you hear is the symbol of children pressing their noses against cold glass and smiling their way past the barrier. See, drivers are walking away from their cars, but the sound of the racetrack drones on, calling forth those ready to race.
