'& its stalking me round the bend' i think,
'in its wicked hitchhiker boots.'
we ride the silence for a minute, watching
how the frost runs on passing fields
like melting morning breadcrumbs.
a pothole breaks the illusion with a jolt:
"its only two more stops" it coos.
i scoff, 'what more is a stop than an integer?'
my last one was dark, and sleet poured
through my collar and climbed up
through my socks; i was freezing.
the next one may be laced with ice,
black fishing holes for gullible shoes,
no more welcoming than before.
'how long is the bit in between?' i pose,
"liminality is invaluable" it muses in reply,
so the clouds play tag, and a sunbeam shines through.
slowing, a hydraulic hiss fills the valley.
a derelict bothie slumps in the farm over, still
there lands a crow on the chimney, still too;
'goodbye' i mutter, 'and thank you
for making me soup, and fixing my blankets,
and thank you for landing here, now.'
a caw and the engine roars back to life,
the crow takes flight and disappears
into the bones of a grandmother elm tree.
'just one more stop', hums its voice
like a scarf, 'will you get off here with me?'
i massage a knot from my neck.
the sunset gave me a step to the sky
and i rode the rolling linearity
of the horizon as a zipline
to here, a place called blind fear
where its cold hand, outstretched
stuffs the brisk morning air into its pocket.
i've been listening to a lot of phil elverum.