Photo by Jhonis Martins

Dogwood blooms mark
the midnight road. The moon,
full as the highway,
measures the spring
of branches south
of the state line.
Grey hooded fishermen
slip lines from a bridge,
the light lines to the water
cut the lapping waves,
the splash of a fish
would be welcome.
My back woods boots
begin again, the map
I sketched, in smoke,
points blue like the vein
of thought we couched
back home.
Close to hand, the shadow
of leaves fan, and fawn,
in blinking headlights.
The rule of thumb returns
to walking, the solitude sought
awaits an exchange
of wings, owls,
and the promise of a lit diner
and coffee.

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