Just outside of Boise, the sky is red.
Listened to The Art of Fielding today, mechanical windmills
in the foreground, mountains behind them, & cried because I remembered
possibility, the moment of discovery—Universe, I would love
to live another 50 years. Can we do that? In the marriage of these rocks,
as I drive through hills turning yellow & orange with fall,
give me another 50 years & I’ll give you my best, my very best.
The red striated outcroppings, trains snaking through them
into the crevices of hills, no cars but mine.
Into the shards & angular rock faces. I’m the only one here!
On the hillsides brush is turning red with intimations of Fall,
strange outcroppings of new houses, small swaths of farmland, greenhouses,
long, narrow chicken coops, a carrier train heading east along I-84
with hundreds of small army tanks strapped on.
Why do semis smell like hair salons? This part of Idaho is rolling flats.
I met a couple with a mastiff at a gas station. They were moving
from Seattle to Florida. There we were, x-ing each other.
This is horse country & tractor country. A beautiful shiny gray horse.
Haybale country & crop rows. It’s 84° like summer hasn’t even left the building.
The point of a road trip just to be on the road,
to experience the road as an object moving through space.
My car has gathered the bugs of the whole nation.
I should’ve left him years ago, maybe, but I had faith that he wanted to be
something more. A beauty in striving.
Out here on the road, I am. Wanderer, observer, recorder.
The shift is seismic. Its dimensions like girders around me.