The Tall Grass
In the depths of the night we sit unseen
my gypsy dog and me
watching the traffic passing us by
in the tall grass by the highway.
The oblivious traffic rushes along,
glaring lights focused ahead.
Few cars, mostly big rigs with 18 wheels –
massive and sleekly dangerous.
Missy rests her dark head on my knee;
my hand drapes over her back.
No one sees us here, we are invisible.
This is good. It’s good.
Crickets keen in quick snatches of quiet,
drowned in the next rumbling swell of machine.
The press and whine of hulking displacement
leaves a hot oily breeze in its wake.
Where are they headed? I silently wonder.
How far do they all have to go?
When they get there, will they be home?
Will anyone be there to greet them?
A dispassionate thought, however –
not tethered to desire by even the slenderest thread.
My own transient dreams are faded and worn,
tucked away under thick attic dust.
Now I am the one who sits content in the night
watching as the world rushes by.
It is enough to know the road is there,
familiar in the depths of the night.
Missy sighs, and settles against me.
Her body is warm next to mine.
The earth is solid underneath me.
The tall grasses dance in the dark.