Restless minutes passed by the tens.
Engines cut; a trio of teenage boys in ball caps
exited a truck, nature calling them to the roadside woods.

Passengers stepped out to stretch in the Oregon sunshine, made hazy
by lingering fumes of fuel and frustration. I met a plump old woman from Eugene
en route to help her son move into his new house.

"Surely things will start moving soon."
We exchanged theories of detours, wrecks, road work,
animals escaped from the zoo, rampaging down the highway.

She and I chuckled gently just imagining
the storm of spots and stripes; the blur of fur and feathers
fleeing toward long-awaited freedom.

We climbed back into our cages of metal and leather.
Doors slammed shut and buckles clicked into place
as we locked ourselves in.

Engines coughed the sleep from their coils, cranking to life,
and we waded single-file toward whatever was waiting,
leash in hand, frowning and foot tapping, for our late arrival.