Road to Camodoli

The seat felt hard and bounced with an uneasy springiness to it as our driver curbed his way around corners. As one side of the dusty gravel road dropped straight off into the greenery I thought casually to myself, perhaps he should slow down a bit. The bus, itself, was chillingly cool, a stark contrast and brisk surprise from the streets I had trudged to catch it. Not that it was needed, though, as the air around the bus was cooling quite dramatically the farther we climbed. I knew this for one of the rusted windows lay open beside me. I dared not shut for the scent of fresh pine stretched its way from the woods through to where I was seated, revitalizing me from my current concern of our drivers habitual unawareness. As he tackled corners of the sharpest degree, where a straight route sent you hurdling out into a vast valley of wilderness and air, turns that the average dehydrated, pale, and faint pedestrian would slow down for, his only refuge was to blast at his horn. Echoing off the bases of ongoing trees, I wondered what another car might do having heard that cry of war.
As the road widened we arrived in a town. Stepping out of that hardened, metal death-trap , I buckled under how soft the earth felt. The dirt seemed soft and polished, a welcoming breeze opened-up my senses. I was immediately aware that I was no longer the prisoner of man made defiance but but a welcomed guest to nature's inviting spirit.