highway wandering

Shadows of clouds
crowd the highway,
and wings tangle and untangle themselves
above the forever telephone wires.

The highway is the tired grey of old dish cloths
brightened only by redwing black birds
who puff their sleeves, brace themselves red
and watch us pass.

Next to the road,
fields blur green,
and sometimes open themselves into long dark hallways,
that close again just as quickly.

~

A quote I read yesterday, next to the ocean:

I wish you would take my hair into your mouth,
enough for a nest.

~ from Esta Spalding's, "The Wife's Account":