Stare straight ahead.
Tire tracks on the county road
gray as gunmetal.

Glance in the rear view mirror.
The neighbor’s hayfield
a suicidal yellow.

Without looking, I know
your white knuckles
on the steering wheel want
to be around my throat.

You know the blood-colored
willows choking the creek?
Finally I see--
No red is the same.

I thank you for that.

Fall 1998