Rain glazed the Wyoming highway with a misty shimmer as I hydroplaned for an unknown time up and down the graceful swells of I-90. A diffused luster emanated from the saffron hills, illuminating the high drifting clouds, which echoed a brilliant yellow gray.
Through the windshield, the slick road cresting the billowing hills looked like a tongue beckoning me into the mouth of the world.In the rear view mirror, a band of tranquility coursed out across the plains from Devil’s Tower.
After short stopping each day in the Black Hills, I was ready to cruise. Wyoming was the right state for that.
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