Scenery from a Bus

Oil drills daven
in the distance,
planted in the midst
of a red, barren field.
The furrows’ ridges
gape like ribs
on a starving dog.
And when I find
the plow’s angle
with the road,
the scenery stutters past
me like old film;
almost as hypnotic
as the yellow
dashes on the highway
that guide us to Big Spring.