The orange orbs dotting the black highway sign at the on-ramp to 76 read, Don’t drive drunk, but the first r and the v are missing, and the last word flashes like a tired lecturer driving home a point with sober indifference. The sign’s glow in the night is a pathetic semblance of the day’s sun, and I wonder who believed the sign an antidote. I read the message as a nostrum for this potholed road, an illumination hardly noticed – when noticed hardly contemplated – and I imagine an excited nudge and the declaration, look, honey bumpkins, a message from God, that being the only way I know fire to speak.