Yeats and Us - Peter Abrahams

“My god,” said Bernie, as we came off a two-laner that had taken us deep into the desert and far from the Valley, where we live, and merged onto a freeway, the tops of the downtown towers visible in the distance, their lower parts lost in the brassy haze. “Can you believe what just happened?” We slowed down to what seemed like nothing, although we were zooming past everyone else. Bernie patted the dash and glanced my way. “Rough beast, big guy, its hour come round at last.” That one zipped right by me, but Bernie laughed so it must have been funny. “Did we hit one forty? Next time I’ll snap a picture of the speedometer. You’ll have to take the wheel.”