Landscape, mild February night, with parked car in lot by field and trees and second smaller landscape closer than it appears
Mid-dusk turns gray green; image on an old TV.
The shadow on a rock thrown by the lot’s
Halogen lights lands with jumpy dog stillness.
Wind spills through lowered windows unevenly
Like coffee in a cup after a sudden brake spills,
Returns, spills again. Go out eleven steps
Into the woods and the dead leaves hanging
On the tree are wilder than the dead leaves
On the tree in the school parking lot. The wind
Passing through them has a different accent.
From a driver’s seat you can look backward
Without moving your head. Without thinking.
You imagine a speeding car coming up beside
You, too late to stop moving into the same lane.
The future can keep only one of you intact.
But blink and it is only three trees, on the lot’s
Far edge, in some complex leafless interaction
With the rest of the world which has no idea
How much they see. Don’t take those gestures
For scenery. They have been waiting here
A hundred years to warn you that the past is
Speeding up and passing you on the left.