for Jan Weismiller
The whole day
lost suddenly to headlights,
to the roadside weeds that arch
as if they hold nightβs still weight.
Rivers we cross go unseenβ
the Salt, the Skunk, some narrow
bridge thatβs all sway and rattle.
The airβs mineral, acrid,
as if it is being pulled
down into the hard, cracked fields.
Tonight the night is all rain,
not yet falling, elemental,
gathering itself until it breaks.