The long road through Flores

The road through Flores does not care about a day’s plan. It folds, drops, and opens onto rice that looks newly washed.

We stop for coffee that is mostly sugar, then again because a market has run out into the lane. Clove smoke comes in through the window and stays.

The radio plays the same ballad for an hour. Nobody changes it. Counting kilometers starts to feel rude.

By the time the hills go dark, the drive has become the trip. The destination can wait until morning.