These Boots are made for Drivin'

I ran home from school this evening as the sun set, my mind ricocheting between past and future: dreams, plans, and assorted imaginings for this year; and memories of friends, colleagues, and students from years past.

I ran under the wide Texas sky, on top of concrete and Bermuda grass, next to countless hunks of metal and gasoline, the only human visible among many thousands of fellow commuters, over the wide, flowing city-river we call Highway 75, past “Bossy Boots Drive,” and I said to myself, “Toto, I don’t think we are in Kansas (or Iowa) anymore.”