The rains came last night washing dust from a road, from

        my car. Measured fields plowed under for food bring dust

        to roads, powder blown on cars that have always been.

        Between storms, farms and rows of dirt are still,

Before nightfall, fog rolls in without a glance.

Tree limbs bow under winds turned against the day’s heat.

I hear sounds from birds in my room like a castle, a cabin
from a hammer, wood and nails played against the ages.

        There is a voice I hear between turning pages.
        What I’ve not considered or do not understand
        I repeat, as if all roads turn back once more.
        Spring storms pass their cool showers. Soon,
        rains will turn warm and moisture broken

        Traveling south, I cross primal roads

        weaving east to west, and south again.

        Cars do not turn as they pass the markers