Somewhere

Somewhere over the hill the sun is shining on a run down old shack surrounded by sage brush. Next to the gray structure is an old Chevrolet, slowly giving way to the elements. It's not a shell; the seats, glass, engine, transmission and everything else that makes an automobile an automobile are still there. Rats, birds and anything else that can make a home in the old car have and continue to do so. The straight six is covered with bits of grass stems, rat shit and the stuffing from the worn out bench seats. The window seals are cracked and worn from the glowering sun and vicious winters. But it will sit there, in silence, very slowly disappearing into the soil, un-aided by the salt and months of rain that fall in other places.