Driving to the lone tree,
the one that marks the right left turn,
the tree full and round,
uncluttered by the muttering
tangling limbs of crowd oak
jostling pine and mobbing
silver maple that snap the wind
into fingers and clenched fists
of hale big as jawbreakers.

That's where the twist lives,
just past the stump yard
trying to petrify, turning
wood to stone,
before the rot hits home,
before nobody knows
where to turn no more.

We found our way
once the willow went down
but it took some time
took some time til
we saw that the redtail
always dives into the same deep
culvert where asparagus
is marked with upturned
boots that never fit anyway

We all find our own way home
the blind Rand McNally instinct
of Get 'n Go coffee stained maps
splitting at the folds.

It takes some time
but we always find a sign
a whitetail spine
or a naked brown christmas tree
or a sag bottom Bud box
thrown, that leads us through the
nameless roads home.