even the telephone poles
are wind-whipped.
I am driving home
for the first time
in five years.
Against the glowing
opal sky
the coal black
flocks retreat-
Cresting a low hill
the pyres
of twisted summer boughs
burn red gold
along the shoulder.
In five thousand
years even the north
star will
shift,
due North never
changes, but
its marker will.
Nestled in the
driver’s seat, the
shift of the earth’s
axis is only
the curve of the road.
After an early harvest
the wheatless fields
are stripped
like beds made ready
for winter blankets.
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