We have legs, too.

Traffic stops atop a bridge of unseen trusses. The jersey barriers give scarcely a hint of the surrounding hills, like the peak approach climb of a rollercoaster would with only sky as its backdrop.

I am stopped with it, halfway across. No escaping. This concrete structure was designed for cars, and I am one, seated forward as part of this two-row movie theater with nothing playing.

Two spastic finches whip themselves over and through and over the structure with unbelievable agility. They seemed to be preparing something to cradle us, as if they were the only two who knew our impending collective fate.

The weather is perfectly Autumn. What few clouds exist, to accessorize the pure cyan sky, are seated far too high up to appreciate the brittle air that passes across my bearded face at the pace and direction of those frantic birds.

I listen to public radio; my daily routine of exchanging worries with the world's. I don't have a girl, but North Korea surely has The Bomb. It's goddamned pledge month, but before the truncated news segments have a chance to be interrupted by self-deprivating spats from their DJs, I nimbly switch to music worthy of premature deafness and dream of open road and open sky.

For these wheels to move, sixty sets need to spin in succession - a metal millipede and its symbol for freedom, waning.

Campfire

I drift away from the present as the second death of wood burns new life into my weighted conscious. My eyes lose focus on anything present as flames lick the logs whose bark lost its footing two seasons past, and I receive a much-needed respite from counting heartbeats.

I've reached the age where having history outweighs blind discussion of plans for time not yet arrived and it makes me want to cry. My hair smells of burnt wood tonight, and I want to shed tears for years past and childhood gone and for the fear of Sir Isaac Newton's plain six words.

But I have my indigo ink and I have my pages graced with all that inspires and all that is mundane. Those still blank will patiently wait for me to live through this winter to seek their healing and the passing of a year particularly not known for joy.

Those summer evenings
riding in cars
windows down
eyes sealed:
Sun through stands of trees
would be a mirrorball
upon the backs of my resting lids
red and black
red then black
then red.

Dense chlorine air
would soften my breathing
while a reminder of the sun
would leave my skin tight
still hot.

If one could recall darkness in utero
skinny-dipping would be the perfect reunion.

God Bless America!