Right brain still sleepy,
Left brain full of to-do and on-the-agenda,
NPR turned up too loud,
Neal Adams too eager to tell me the new bad news,
Me too weak to say no.
Take a left on County Line and
Not much traffic this morning.
Some mornings this too-skinny, too-rolling,
Country road is a drag race, quick
And dangerous. I've fantasized
My death here. Probably a head-on.
Whitley to the west and
Allen to the east, when
It's summer and sunny the
Light streams in and out of my car, as I pass
Additions, the little woods past Aboite Center,
Then a white fence casting long, uneven shadows
I chase before me.
November days, through, start
Late and end early; twilight visits
Morning and night. The stratus clouds
Hang so low, they simply
Morph into the mist that
Ghosts over the fields on the Whitley side,
Fields spare and yellow-brown, newly shorn,
Somehow almost alive under the slightly shifting,
Strangely clear, silver light that this morning brings;
How far away the sun seems, far as forever--
Still, even as these few miles of County Line Road
Pass by, both counties lighten, west and east.
My little car slows and somehow the radio's off.
No one's around. The light gathers and grows,
And I roll my window down. It's cold.
I watch the field for a moment, breathing slowly,
And with the mist, a small quiet slinks inside,
Here on a hill just past Liberty Mills.
Inexplicable, still --
Light and quiet --
That's what I found
On West County Line Road
One Monday morning