The Space Race

Pulling Over a Dirt Road at Night Somewhere in the Prairies

It is deserted here in the night-chill
waiting for sounds to wake up.
I could disappear and no one would notice.

Elsewhere people are driving, worried about lateness
like time was a dark river of fear.
The drivers cannot see beyond their headlights.

While driving, people narrow their focus to a pinhole.
Forests of ash and pine enjoy the better part of silence,
listening to stampeding stars.

Whole generations could cascade me;
I would not care, for I am in the absence.
We are moving in different directions while I sit.