OldTroubador's blog post - A Night Song. A Swan Song?

After solving a few problems with the shipper, I was finally able to put the Freebird on the dock. The customer loaded her, I signed the bills, buttoned up the trailer, and rolled out. I eased her out onto the town road, turned right onto the main drag, then left onto a two lane headed north to the interstate.
The sun had just about gone below the western horizon by this time. My gal and I scooted between farms, some with their fields shorn, others waiting for their turn at the harvest. I noticed a light ground fog was rising from the newly cut fields, spreading across the land. In the damp coolness of the evening, one could faintly smell the aroma of freshly cut corn and grass. Up ahead, some of the fog drifted across the road; it was mindful of an old black and white movie, maybe a Sherlock Holmes, the way it spilled across the two lane. We topped a small rise and, looking out, I saw a field of hay that had just been cut and baled. The fog rose heavier here, making the bales sitting out in the field look ethereal and haunting. A combine was coming down the road. I slowed the ‘Bird down and eased onto what passed for a shoulder, as did he. We waved as we passed. As I throttled the old gal back up, a large tractor pulling an equally large grain bin drove by us. The farmer and I waved at each other also. We reached the interstate, I geared down, took the ramp, and headed west to Des Moines.
By this time, the sun was fully below the horizon. The sky in the west was a light brass color, fading to a sort of green, then pale blue before melding into indigo then black. It is a special time of the evening, the gloaming. It is a time for the day creatures to hurry to bed; the sky was alive with birds doing just that. People also, scurried along, headed for home. Trucks large and small headed for a truck stop or terminal. The lights on the trucks glow in a special way, looking like iridescent gumdrops. One could still see the color of the trees and the towns as we passed; slightly darker at this time, yet still discernable. In the western sky, at the transition from brass to blue, the merest sliver of the moon hung. It seemed more of a papercut in the sky than an orbital object. I stared, transfixed. As night continued to encroach upon the land, the trees lost their coloration and stood as dark sentinels along the highway. Night continued to pull its blanket across the land.
The air was cool as we motored west. I had long before closed the windows and now eased on the heater to burn away the night chill. All had become dark; I could no longer see the trees on the side of the road except as ephemeral shadows in my peripheral vision. The only things to be seen now were lights – streetlights, store lights, traffic lights, headlights and taillights. And of course, the endlessly scrolling dotted lines marking my path into the night.
I could not have asked for a better night to drive; especially as this might be the penultimate leg of the final trip for the Freebird and I. Either today, or possibly in a week, I will turn her in for a new truck, a new Freebird. The fact that our run might be coming to an end did not deter the old gal at all. She still pulled the hills, growling and snarling at the effort. The turbocharger still sang the same happy song it did when we first met, two years and four months ago. The engine brakes still chuckled, her sense of humor undeterred by the past 320.000 miles. She was enjoying the night, and I was enjoying her company, and her passion for work. I reached forward and patted her dashboard, much as a cowboy would pat the neck of a favorite steed.
No matter when I return her, it has been a wonderful run with the Freebird III. All those miles. All the states and highways. Thousands of different towns have felt her hooves trod the streets. It is a bittersweet time for me; I anticipate eagerly the new Freebird I shall acquire yet, will miss this iteration immensely. We have seen and survived so much together, both bad and good. The storms, the floods, the wrecks and fires that have littered the road leaving behind the hurt and the dead. The colors of spring busting through the harsh winter, the colors of autumn as summer lays down its head. The hills, the plains, the watercourses from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes; from the Atlantic to the mighty Mississippi River. She has been my home, my friend, my confessor, my protector.
Just before the night took over fully, in the faintest light in the west, a small cloud hung, black against black. One last vision before the darkness finally won. We kept pushing west, driving hard; she was singing as she pulled 21 tons of H. J. Heinz best and I worked the gears and the wheel, keeping her moving and out of the ditches. After a couple hours, the false sunset of the lights of Des Moines shone ahead. We roared through the city, turning south now. In a couple more hours, it would be time to stop for the night. Her song never faded through the hours. Crossing the line into Missouri, it was time to start thinking of a place to stop. Just north of Kansas City, we did. As I set the brakes and shut off the engine, she gave a final shudder, shaking off the last 500 miles before drifting to sleep. Tomorrow, we will go again, her and I both rested, unsure just yet of our destination and destiny, yet working together, hand in hand, my old faithful companion and I.