By Tara Peck
Spindle-limbed branches pass by on the right,
fresh picked apples by you, grab a basket.
Car radio blares The Tokens and the lion sleeps tonight under cold periwinkle skies,
crisp wind,
autumn conclusion.
I point at all the lights with a chubby, stubbed finger,
at Whitetail ski trail river flowing down the mountain, not realizing
the fireworks glow of astigmatism.
I’ll take you to see all the Christmas lights,
you promise
and kept in December of that year.
It’s a long stretch of road requiring high beams,
shining for deer eyes.
You flick off the lights at oncoming traffic and I wonder aloud, why?
Because it’s the neighborly thing to do,
driving down the mountain at night.
Civilization lies fallow in the distance.
I fall asleep against fog-breathed window glass
to the intermittent warm yellow high beams,
seatbelt cradled.
