Three border region with Austria and Slovakia, yellow and dark and bright green grasses vanishing eachward, crooked crosshatched with dirt double track, old main routes, current farm machinery avenues, hunters’ alleys to favorite glades. So block after block of pre-bloom poppies, sunflowers, cemeteries and Christian monuments—crosses and Pietas—in small groves, woodsy leafed overhead or in a wide open. We ride these for kilometers after kilometers, seeing almost no one nor cars. Towns signaled by a few hundred meters of wavy asphalt, in summary not much more than a here and there dozen houses and farm sheds clinging to a steepled church, but the fewness of the buildings somehow manages to imply something opposite of impermanence in this part of the world that has so long been itself.
Small wheels drift in the sand puddles, mostly not noticing pacing sun setting along to turn back East with flash red blinkers like slow motion back.