A 1930s Harley. Photo’d somewhere in the South of the US I imagine. A man, alone with his thoughts. And his Harley-Davidson.
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.