by Christopher Raley
Once long ago we were at a party
in a bar on a lake, and the mountains
were black in the dark of the tall windows.
Distant headlights drew a diagonal line.
I was in two parts, not drinking in either:
the one, my wife, who said nothing; the other,
the people in the company I worked for
who laughed and shouted awarding the year.
It was December. Hard freeze would settle.
We would dry flooded homes for weeks to come.
But later, much later, it seemed to me
this was the picture that night in the bar:
From frame to frame distant trucks hauled their loads
and lights shone fleeting sight of the unseen road.