I sit in my truck gliding down city streets,
still, cold, empty
buildings floating
by my side-eye,
passing under
power lines—low-
hanging branches on
my river run.
Green to yellow—yellow
dies to red, silently,
without motors or crying brakes.
My exhaust wanders up,
drawn to heaven and the
lonely moon,
as my breath fills the cab,
and dissipates like
an unheard word.
I like these early mornings
like the stillness of a
hidden pond
in a forest full of tired
creatures.
