The sky is the east
bound highway. Winter
trees hold hawks.
How many miles
can we run
without radio?
The engine fades,
the rumble of the road,
its hypnosis.
Weave in and out
between trucks.
There’s more freeway
as much ahead
as behind.
James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.
An American road poem in the righteous tradition. A genre that it would be impossible to emulate here!
Thanks, Dick. I guess it’s all the country music I grew up with that has me so interested in writing road poems. That and the fact that I love road trips…
I agree that it’s a good road poem, but there’s something almost Anglo-Saxon in the alliteration and images you have here. Wonderful stuff.
Thanks, Joseph. I hadn’t even thought about that, such was the rush of NaPoWriMo. Glad you enjoyed it.