The road is silent. Who knows where
these voices come from that say
the road is calling. The road is a mirror
where a girl leans forward to inspect
the arch of her brow. The road stretches
along her curving arm, winds
across her belly, over thighs
to turn at her bare feet. The road
branches and leafs out into cloud.
The road repeats. It seeps into dreams
where mule deer cross to make
another road. It begins in sunlit dust.
It does not end in starry arches
but widens and turns back.The road
grinds over empires and disappears
in the forest. Over the rim of the hill,
across a hazy clearing, a traveler
gives birth to the road in his boots.
Wait. Watch. Walk. Wonder.
Become one with the dusty road.
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