I drive across a covered bridge, failing,
planks loosening beneath my weight,
all manner of tree russet and gold, shedding,
praying for a little less permanence.
The road winds around abandoned barns
wearing name plates and birth dates.
Perfect square plots of earth the state cannot sell,
that so few people visit still the scents
of horses and musket fire endure.
I see a wheel smoothly
carting river water in circles,
toward me and away.
A silent wheel
a boy of five might see
being acclimated to the deafening
marvels of science.
The White Mountains loom overhead,
dip below the tree line and reemerge, unchanged.
They’ve forecasted an early snow this year.The morning sky could hardly be darker.
-published by The Heartland Review and in my chapbook, A Pure River