Three miles from the High Level Bridge
sun shimmered against the four lanes as if
hundreds of tiny glass beads found
themselves dumped out on Main Street.
The street was pretty nearly deserted
for the middle of a warm day, only
a few cars, storefronts small but bright,
especially the boarded up ones.
And she drove along, just a kid, really,
on her way to somewhere, someone.
That day washes back not like
a dream, more as a set of wistful
snapshots, her 19 year old self
full of unstudied images.
You drive, bring her to this 3-way stop
at some edge of town where a field
spreads itself out in that late May sort
of way, pale green and luminous.
There’s the silence between songs
on a CD, rattle of the gearshift
under your fingers, that slight weight
of a camera bag against her feet.
The sunlight sweeps
a curious hand against
the young wheat, that shy
honest light in your eyes.
