wires strung along the road atop wooden poles
follow the rise and run of the land for miles
in either direction

no houses, trees or shrubs anywhere, just gray
pavement snaking, unlined, unmarked,
the delicious smell of hot asphalt

people are talking on those wires, loved ones
near and far exchanging news and hopes
for a bygone day

darkness settles in along with the cicadas’ song,
cooler air prevails while starlight winks
behind thin cloud wisps

everywhere, everything falls,
helpless, in search of a gust,
an updraft

Chagall 2019