This is a small segment taken out of my book for various reasons:

Cutting the morning mists of rolling farmland like a scalpel, sucking orange segments, engine screaming, she dreamed of art - her measure of a society. Gone now were the autumn hues, given way to the gray skeletons that would wait so patiently for life’s eventual return. Gone were the flocks of doves, and their short shrieks, startled skyward by the slightest motion. Each curve brought another fence line holding cows against the wind and each hole in the clouds a shock of light with no promise of warmth before disappearing across fields mute against a gray sky. What had gray to do with the absence of life, anyway?
She had only another hour of driving freedom before she would hit I-25 and its boring straightness. She wanted to wring every second dry, to caress this winding road , feel the light pressure of her car as it responded to her subtle suggestions, leaving no evidence of her passage except the momentary track left in dampness. She powered through every curve, downshifting, feeling the car’s response, demanding precision, desiring that lightness that speed gave her.
Hurtling along the road in her cocoon, leaning, twisting, dropping in curves to flatten them out, she allowed the cold morning drizzle into her state of mind. As she raced to the droplets she imagined each one striking her with an evaporative sizzle, cooling a pinpoint area of her surface and each behind it cooling a little deeper until they drove the heat from her. Purified, she watched the road unwind before her and relaxed her hands on the wheel. Mark had once said power to control others was a balm for those who cannot control themselves. He had wished her love. She went faster. She turned the music louder, threw her head back and laughed loudly. She did not fear him.