Things along twenty-seven miles of road between public land:

Dead rabbit.
Two candy corns smashed together.
Beer bottles of a dozen types.
A shrine of some sort built into the rocks and decorated with Christmas ornaments.
A sock.
A water bottle half full or tobacco spit.
Budweiser can stylized with the American flag, the colors bleached out in the sun.
Crosses, the site of long ago crashes, some falling down, some new, one that reads “a father, brother, son, and fiancé killed by a drunk driver.”
Amy W’s English Folder.
A king of hearts without his 51 friends.
An empty box of McDonald’s chicken tenders, 3 piece.
Wendy smiling up from a sun-bleached soda cup.