The owl last night was the first
I’d heard all summer. No one
is making me go and the yellow
squash are ripe on the vine.
When I am not there,
several will grow to good-size
but I will not pick them
nor will I eat the casserole I cooked
this morning and left for you.
Along the road I smile at the way
I can see between the rows of corn
even at seventy miles an hour
and just past the Pennsylvania border
a windmill turns. I imagine a family
living the way I dreamed we would.
As the valley fills with evening light
I lean toward the empty seat next to me
and tell you to look. On the radio
a song from years ago and I am crying.
A truck passes me and the driver beeps
then waves, frightening me, but the next
time I fall a little in love with him
and think he knows everything about me,
driving this interstate at dusk
six hundred miles from home.
From Where There is No Night (Finishing Line Press, 2004).
Used with the author's permission.