Greyhound Window, South

Like mile-long spiderweb,
Telephone lines drape from pole to
Poles so old
They are almost grown into trees.
These soft lines gleam, glazed by
The oncoming beams of the one-by-one
Trucks and silent cars
Who light this country road.

Hills rise silent giants in our headlamps' aura
Out of the deep=breathing black.
In graceful arc between farms
Horses graze the meadow of the dark,
Sheep, blackberries sleep
In the black-draped fields.
In the trees are owls.

Memory is a spider, weaving.
It is night;
Our light travels
Down the dimpled road.
Somewhere in this grass-swept
Dark is home.

by Sandra Larkman Heindsmann