Dust on powerlines makes them hum in the rain
as you drive uphill and take the turn
to the little bridge, where each car waits to cross
a single span over the tree-hung space
one from each side, like plaiting hair.
Assembling the day, what it will require,
you dream at the wheel, stopping, moving,
just eyes, hands, and the slow uncovering
of thought. There is a kind of grace
in this small yielding, in the measure of its pace
as the early rain is lifting, trunk to branch
to leaf. Silver, silver, silver, the struts of the bridge
go by, and now the windscreen frames
the grids and cornerings of the coming day.
Your thoughts fall into gear. The car hums on
trailing only the faintest cloak of rain.
* This poem first appeared in Famous Reporter no. 29 8/04