She tallies hawks, like omens, perched on treetops.
He drives, eyes on the road’s sudden turns.
Their free hands span the distance between them
and lace together, mountain-like—all knuckles and bone.
Somewhere, a fire smolders as hikers descend
from a campsite. A train dinosaurs through a forgotten town
with mines beneath--arterial and empty. The signs are obvious
as the setting sun and warn the travelers of dangers:
falling rock, sharp curves, steep inclines, until fear
straps them back to each other, with miles yet to go,
until they are only two headlights piercing the darkness.
I don't think #4 is fully cooked, but oh well, so suffers the poetic process, as it was back to my day job today.
ReplyDeleteReally, you don't think it's cooked? I so love the image of hand-holding - something so simple and beautiful. I will be thinking about it for days.
ReplyDeleteLove the ending.
This is great! So many aspects, like the way you turn "dinosaurs" into a verb.
ReplyDelete