We slipped loose of the silvery Sandon Valley
with the blistering clang of your '99 Pathfinder.
I was burnt out on late August
and trying to use up the sunlight
as we wound the heavy green of the truck
up the old logging road.
All around us the walls of mountains were swollen
with the coats of old forest. All the edges
of peaks tailored with needles
of pine, the tops of trees pinned to the sky.
At the wheel, you weathered the storm
of rock grinding beneath tire
and as we rode the rolling waves of potholes I thought,
(so, this is the turbulence of empty space)