Wind chimes
loud as church bells,
sun straight down, no wind

The creak of trees
like a crack in the sky.
Small purple flowers scattering
before a stand of daffodils
taking the higher ground
with the brightest yellow.
Woodpecker holes in soft, dead wood
crowded like condos with the best views,
below a mile marker of old concrete
across the way from what I take
for a crumbling altar I think
will make a good grill
for whatever birds slow down
to keep up with me.

A moment of rare silence,
perhaps honesty, even prayer
on my drive home at night
among jacked-up trucks,
shifty-eyed low beams,
shifting medians of concrete
and brake lights as far as I can see.

I’m afraid what I will do trying
to outrun this life and untold others
I’ve cut off and are now coming at me.
A true fear, the kind I trust
as I grip the wheel with the strength
of anger that sees its worth in me.

Some mornings I stand in the road
and the moon is full in the trees
and pulling for me. Birdsong
is bringing me first light
to wear like a St. Christopher medal
against the surround sound
of the expressway always close by.