Down into the shadowed valley,
the creek still high and fast with melt,
the big oak by the bridge
dragging its hand in brown water,
and up the other side, steep enough
that we drive into the evening sky,
clear and glowing from its base,
a Maxfield Parrish twilight,
nature imitating art, clear
but for the trails of jets crossing
under the cradle of the moon
and shaded round by the pinks
of sunset on their bottoms
and on their backs the blues
of an ageless universe,
long tubes of exhaust in a grid
where men have flown,
speeding to do business
and speeding home
to what matters most,
while some us have never left,
traveling the same road
we traveled yesterday,
living in a deeper channel,
happy to think so.
copyright 2010 by J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
