anodyne
We are headed almost due North
on a tight stretch of interstate
that seems to run parallel to the trees.
They huddle in dense green on a narrow rise
that lifts from open highway
& falls over a culvert along the road.
Granddad lets me ride in the back
on top of faded blue vinyl seats.
I choose the radio station
because I’m the oldest,
an echo in the glass
with a dead yellow-jacket
& my sister’s hair ties.
I stretch out – up in the back windshield,
close one eye and stare down
a yellow sliver of moon
Somewhere between Magnolia and Little Rock
the sun, annihilated by the horizon,
the tree-lined rims of fields,
disappears.
Cumulonimbus rise
forty thousand feet straight up.
& I keep an eye out
between burnt orange de-frost wires
for the particular colors of stars
wavering between columns of white
and a deep dark blue
that looks like it’s passing over us.
When grandmother overhears Sarah and me
telling what we know, I watch her mouth
curve into a smile in the rear-view mirror.
The sun doesn’t set, she says,
We spin around it – like a top.
& I find that hard to believe.
Heat lightning blinks &
a song on the radio winks back.