The trees along the left shoulder of the highway looked so drained as to make him turn his head to the shiny billboards on the right.  Shimmering rejoicing faces (made smiley by a car, a toothpaste, a new home, or some medicine) whizzed by, enough of them to soon lose their point and look as drained as the trees on the left still were.  He could cut down decades-old trees with barely an eyebrow raised, but to saw down any one of the always new billboards was sure to land him in prison.  That thought, too, whizzed by.  All that left him was the road to focus on, trying to stay on the right side of its lines.