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.