To grow wings or dig tunnels,
retreat from the bloated summer;
befriend, not judge
in the dim light that stumbles
at bay —– resisting

the road we rode with a turn
of the wheel; a glittering prospect
to be chased like the heat
rising as it deepens, seemingly,
with each mile. We push onward

trying to retrace what is evaporating
in the dust of tires on dry earth
or find in our tall shadows
a faint mirror of our birth.