I watch heat rise in ripples from the asphalt. The laces on my shoes are loose, so I kneel to tighten them. All I see ahead is concrete. There is grass to my left. No trees. The land is flat enough, but the curve of the road leaves me blind to what is ahead. Sometimes I get angry that I walk, and I walk, and the view does not change.

When frustrated, I grab a few loose rocks from the side of the road and chuck them as far as I can see. They land across the bend, and I feel a slight breeze under my ponytail. I take a swig from my water bottle and listen for birds. There are no trees, but I swear, sometimes, I hear the faint sound of chirping from the space I cannot see. 

When the horizon begins to darken, and my stomach rumbles, I stop for food. I pull the same granola bar from the same pack on my back, the same as every other night before. I sit on the shoulder a step away from the asphalt, take a bite, and rest. Some nights the darkness lasts longer than usual. Sometimes it lasts for days. So I walk. And I walk. And I approach the bend, but like the days in the sun, I am unsure how close I am. 

When overwhelmed with grief for the days wasted walking, as I am walking, walking still, I pause and watch a beetle crawl over a stick and onto the white line on the pavement. He crosses, turns around, and goes back. I wonder if I should go back. I take the stick and draw a line in the dirt between the grass and asphalt. The beetle does not return. I smudge the line with my pointer finger. Maybe he will. 

When the nights fade and the morning sun lifts above the bend, I watch carefully for cars. I do not want any trouble. I stay close to the shoulder. The view does not change. The sound of passing vehicles is loud and overwhelming. I think back to the chirping I know I have heard before. I do not hear it now. 

I take a break and sink into the grass. I run my fingers through it, rip a few blades into two. I remember how I once made garland as a child, so I tear a slit through the middle of one blade of grass and run another through it. I tie a knot and repeat until I have a garland of green to place on my head. I feel beautiful as I walk, and I walk, and I listen. 

I hear the ants crawling on the ground. I bend down and say, “Hi lovely,” to the line marching along the white paint on asphalt. I figure they are looking for the end, too. I wonder if the asphalt is too hot for their little ant feet. I pour water from my bottle beside them. The one in the back says, “Thank you miss, but we aren’t thirsty for water,” and I am taken aback by their demeanor. They look back at me and grin, baring their teeth, and I notice their footprints, how they step methodically into tiny dots already marked on the ground. 

I am closer to the bend, I think. The worms come up from the ground and wave. They tell me secrets of the earth and tell me not to tell. “Pinky promise,” I say and offer a pinky to the air at my side. 

I feel a slight breeze under my ponytail. I think I can hear faint chirping. I watch heat rise in ripples from the asphalt. The laces on my shoes are loose, so I kneel to tighten them. All I see ahead is concrete.