The Dry Season

Route 81 in mid-October,
Day softly turning to dusk,
And in the crispness before evening,
My drive is auto-pilot for now.
The road stretches before me,
65 all the way to the Red,
and as the prairie turns mesquite brush,
my mind is lost in the miles.
I see a dead fox on the white line,
Mashed into a mess on the edge,
And fall is in air changing,
Cool turning cold with the dark.
Making this drive twice on the weekends,
The highway blurs and I lose time.
Sunset comes as I hit Texas,
Afterglow orange slants through the glass.
Each drive I fade a little more,
Mind going on a trip to somewhere else,
The past arises like a wave,
Tide coming fast to erase the shore,
And I am in the depths of my teeming brain,
Drowning in thoughts as I misplace myself.
Suddenly a coyote arises from the trees,
Darts across the road on a dare,
And I am suddenly there in the moment,
Wildness claiming me as one of its own.
It was just a brief glance,
An interlude at 75 miles an hour,
But the canine’s eyes looked at me,
Through me as a ghost on the blacktop,
And I am filled with the sensation
of something that is lost in its wake,
an irrevocable feeling left,
sadder I drive past in a haze.
Day has turned into night,
My head lamps light my way home,
But I am no longer her now,
I am lost in the Wild God now.