At the far end of my driveway,
as I read the colors of
irritable afternoon hawks
looking for lunching nests,
I spy avid runners
sneaking their feet up
the lazy road.
Any car can spoil
all of this for me.
Some will give it their
best, pedaling the fuel
thriftlessly that has come
from unresolved Arabic
tensions.
The older trees here
drip fog religiously,
having no ability
to stop the animals
that would have them
converted into boxes
for living.
I consider the commas
and periods in this
sort of grainy air,
but nothing
conclusive.
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