by Gregory Spatz

HE WOULD NOT BE the first traveler to imagine his path through the mountains, rising and falling with the course of the river below, as a tunnel cut through space and time with everything along its course fated for him to encounter: the pattern of light and shadow on his windshield and on the road ahead, the exact smattering of rain at kilometer marker 146, wind gusting at the sides of his car, the sudden splat of a dead bug leaving Cranbrook…