There is another road. It is, for the most part, hidden from view. I have seen it only a few times, and always it has been those walking upon it that have made it appear to me.
I saw it for the first time in a wicked snow storm, just as the light was succumbing to the night. Out of the corner of my eye I saw them, walking in single file, bent low beneath the wind, wolves. Their path cut across the lake. They walked with purpose out of the woods on one side and onto the frozen water. So straight was their path that they seemed to be crossing a bridge I could not see. They were on the road.
I saw it yesterday as I passed a creek, stopped solid with ice. One, two, three deer went across, filling the space between the trees, their bodies revealing its direction. They didn't pause to look at me, didn't stop to consider the sun coming out from behind a cloud. They were on the road.
The road, this road, was not built. It cannot be seen, only walked, only witnessed. It is drawn with the precision of a draftsman's ruler, and always at a right-angle to the one we would draw. It is across our path, over the creek, and through. It moves across the horizon, cuts us in two. When you see it you are made aware that the road you are on, the one that felt so solid before, the one that seemed to be going somewhere, is really just a way point on the other road. It is this other road that I am always looking for, this other road that I sometimes see.