Landscape, with highway litter
Off the main road the weather has herded
Things long forgotten on invisible avenues
Of air. Most of our paths are so transparent
We can’t see the end coming:
In a high branch a plastic bag full of wind
Perches like a hawk surveying the field.
Fog, Near the Summit of Afton Mountain, Just After the Winter Solstice
We disappear into the unseen ahead of us:
Already built, a bridge will reveal itself
when we arrive where a bridge is needed.
We’re not the first to make this trip.