You can tell you’re in Texas by the roadkill. Somewhere past Arkansas it changes from raccoon and possum to armadillo. It’s comforting to see regional differences, even if it’s in the form of blood and guts on the highway.
There was a brief stretch along twenty where the landscape wasn’t pillaged. Not yet arid, with low-slung trees on rolling hills, and the big Texas sky. One has to pay attention to catch the pretty parts.
Love it or hate it, Texas is stubbornly its own thing. It’s contrary and defensive, like a sullen high school boyfriend from the wrong side of the tracks.