a note to the highwayman

it is a gift

to bear witness

to the morning.

each in

our own way.

 

i walk

a busy road

to my quiet places.

 

it is unavoidable.

 

my eyes follow light paths

that burn maple stains

of fallen leaves

through wispy shafts

of seed remnants

 

light cups and whispers.

 

 

a horn blares

heY BAbee

i turn up my ipod

 

you cannot imagine

in your truck,

how far you are from

invited

to this moment.

how unwelcome

is

your gaze.

 

 

Done