I enjoy the drive from St. Louis to Chicago through the open plains. I used to take the trip regularly, but now I go that way infrequently. The vastness of the vision reminds me of those times when I catch a glimpse of the divine presence. Here's a reflection on driving north on I-55 written a litte over a year ago:

North of Springfield plains stretch out
and in their stretching swell my sight.
Fields still chew the residue of last year’s crops. 
They’re chilled by winter winds, 
which in turn are harvested by giants—
turbines briskly swinging sickle-blades.  
Roads snip fields from one another,
barns and houses break the uniformity.

My vision, given freedom, 
reaches for the fullness, the dark
tree border often edging the horizon.
Scopic sight can be a trickster: 
a six-story high-rise will, a minute later, 
transfigure into five tall tubes for storing grain.

Such places of expanded vision
leave deep marks. Faith is fortified 
by vastness, the imprint of enormity lasting 
when the vista’s drawstring is again pulled tight
and liberated sight is only sourced in memory.