There are no people in Indiana.

But there are roads. Long,

Straight stretches of pavement reaching

Out to the East and West with cold,

stoney fingers. Beside them lay fields of muted and

Desolate green dotted with fences and the

occasional tree.

There are no people in Indiana.

But there are buildings. The kind

That look as if they were abandoned years and years ago,

Set far back from the roads, but still visible across the fields

That lay before them. Most are old farmhouses with

Rickety old porches and ghostly windows.

Some silos stand like steadfast guard dogs beside the houses,

While others crumble beside barns.

There are no people in Indiana.

But there are animals. Cows stand

Or lay out in fenced fields a small, but noticeable

Contrast to the otherwise stale landscape,

each one unaware of their own ephemeral existence.

The sheep stand alone or in small cliques, dim skies

Dulling their disheveled wool.

Crows below ear-splitting calls from the tops of telephone

Wires or road signs. They call to their brothers and sisters

That fly overhead, thick clouds of evermoving darkness.

There are no people in Indiana.

But there are billboards. Cheesey,

Overtly Christian ones beckoning the “lost” truckers

To seek God.

Call 855 For Truth. If You Died Today, Heaven or Hell?

What Would Jesus Do?

The once stark white or vibrant polychromatic boards meant

To halt the driver’s mind now fade into the rest of the

background scene, bold admonitions that

Call to arms an invisible audience.

There are no people in Indiana.

But there are license plates. We collect them

As they race by:

Our third Ohio of the day, Indiana, Indiana, Arkansas, North Dakota.

They are wayward travelers going forth on their journeys

As we go on ours.

The cars all blend together after the first few hours, melting

Into a predictable mix of dark-colored mid-sized sedans.

Their wheels spin in an endless cycle, on their way to

ever closer destinations.

There are no people in Indiana.

But there is my family. In our car, we sit,

Waiting patiently while we move ever so slowly

Towards our destination.

Each of us stares out the window to the dismal scene

Before us, and just five or six hours outside St. Louis,

We realize; there are no people in Indiana. There may be cows,

And crows, buildings, and roads, billboards and license plates,

But there are no people in Indiana…..

At least not on the I-70 highway.