The Back
Roads
Somewhere between
here and there
a road winds through the trees.
Houses now line the sacred hunting grounds of yesteryear.
All that is left are bones and frozen souls, beneath the seethe of
suburban mores.
Where once was a rolling hillside
a fenced-in prison of indulgence
stands atop like a loutish sculpture
an ode to all that has gone wrong.
This is still my favorite road to drive on though.
I turn right by the golf course and downshift.
I hear the rift of the road below
I feel the Indians and pioneers romping through the mud
chants and screams hovering about
as my car coils through the past.
The first curve is dark even in the light of day.
The small bridge with train tracks above it
takes patience and cultivated conditioning
if one wants to get through it
traveling this fast.
The cast of a shadow masks me
and the tunnel ends.
One more curve elicits the feeling of flying;
sunlight appears through the trees.
I am now moving too quick for the arrows
and my momentum carries me onward
it carries me aloft
into the soft muted sound of peace.
This road reminds me that I am moving;
that we are all moving
farther and farther away from what it is behind us.
Perhaps all we are is buried below the ground.
Maybe if we just slowed down and listened to this sound
then we could live without running from what's all around.
Can you hear it?
Breathe it in.
Let go of what appears to be there
and remember that centuries down this same old thoroughfare
they won't know you were even here.
