Beautiful was all he said:
the thought wandered as
cicadas chirped and prairie grass rustled,
commenting biddies at dusk.
Legs crying, the rider pushed
on into oxygen-starved darkness as if on rails,
oblivious to where it might go,
unseeing of its end,
thinking yet not getting it,
and cool air turned cold
out where the steam shovels,
knowing this day was done,
unignited their fires and slept.
Can a steam shovel know what
a rider cannot?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment