From Here to the Coast

Narrow road scars high mountains.
Green-yellow grass bends with the wind.
We don’t know what lies tucked in folds of trees.

We climb through passes that hold themselves strong
and wind down tight into blind ravines
like pilgrims on steep angles of foreign land.

Wood and wire fence stakes the rounded edge
of some forgotten boundary.
Gray, splintering posts have stood so long

they can only yet stand.
We crest another pass and sink
seeing the mountains to come.

The hardest part of anything precedes the end.
All hours and all miles multiply fatigue,
but I know the sun will dim in salt mist.

Narrow road scars high mountains.
Green-yellow grass bends with the wind.
We don’t know what lies tucked in folds of trees.