I drive home, slowly.
The trees lining the road look the way I feel:
Ambivalent.

Some of the leaves are brilliant
Shining he way this amber ring does
And some have flat warm tones
Like the ochres the shaman, in his trance,
Brushed onto the walls
Building a miracle at Lascaux.

The dead ones
Lay still
Until a big rig barrels by
And they fly up in circles
And settle back where they began-
They're shiftless, no better than you or me.