Two Days Before Thanksgiving

by Christopher Raley


We were leaving under breaking clouds

when I saw it,

bright yellow harbinger of my old life,

carrier of artifacts of others’ lives

rolling down the highway to the next job.

Always some poor fool chasing the next job.


But we were leaving under breaking clouds.

By the time highway 45 rushed us

down the soft earth belly, whole thrusts of light

ricocheted golden domes into sky.


Soon sky was a blue gash and orchards wept

when wind shivered depthless skin

on the blue strung river.  


I’ve driven this before.

All this: wind, river, earth and sky

like a careless dream

between long periods of thick waking.

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