The Pacific Northwest falls away behind me.
A haze of dust masks distant mountains
turn to shadow in my driver side mirror.
With every slight bend or curve of the road,
glimpses from my past glide slide to my left
slide to my right:
Three Sister's all too soon fade from view,
but remain white-capped cindered cones
splashed across my memory.
Quiet desert basins barbed wire-fenced in,
roads wind betwixt
scrub speckled hilltops and buttes as far as the eye can see.
And even in this high scrub-land out of way place,
runs blistered and cracked two lanes of blacktop.
The need for repair evident in
work crews and work trucks:
I smell the tar and crushed stone
as it mixes with the fumes of air I breathe.
and I wonder as I drive
fast as thunder shoved across a storm stricken sky,
or as a lightning strike knife stab
thrust from coast to coast,
piercing this mighty body in two.