In Thrush Light

How was it that day the car canted
along those dry, blond hills, courting
the road's camber as the needle dipped

toward empty and we whisked through manzanita,
live oak, madrone, the landscape simplifying
to those few elements, the road

unfurling for what seemed eons, the needle
hovering, then dropping below "E" and still
no human hesitation in that fractal imagery,

the light going peach melba, carmine,
votive-candle red, all churchy in the scrub,
jewel staining the stunted trees, the car

drunk on its own ether, tires popping
gravel, a thrush trickling in far woods,
all talk stopped and breath held

as that California backroad unreeled
in the clefts of failing sunlight,
emptiness itself our fuel and sustenance?

And while some part of us merged at last
with the main road, got gas, found lodging,
slept, woke, parted ways, went on,

some part of us continues still
to glide gold hills, patinaed,
without thought or speech, on pause,

as bloody light lengthens in stands
of live oak, madrone, manzanita,
empty and complete.

Copyright © 2004 Gyorgyi Voros All rights reserved
from The Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission