That road through the country
unspooling under a dark mountain
massages my shins like wine.
Cinnamoned cliffs protest
my salt and pepper ideas.
The day in the city is over.
Old trees on the hillside crack
their knuckles into the air,
pulling at lyres of light.
Birds glide on updrafts
of the wound I released.
The day in the city is over.
Grasses bend in stress
and winds unknot muscles
leaning hard as a masseuse.
Wheat, a promise panting
through the throat of the valley,
nods: the day in the city is over.
We wait under the sun,
enduring impossible delays
of this growth. If
the farmer holds
our heads up to the sickle,
the day in the city is over.
But all is well.
Still on the way, trusting
earthbeats know their sway.