Before Moving On
After working all day, we set out
down our driveway with the green arch
of trees reaching over the road. We pass through
redwoods, and glide under branches past
the narrow necklace of stream rolling down
banks of thick earth, then pull up to the main road
and stop. It’s a kind of ritual we go through
each time we come to the crossroad. I look back
up around the corner to the right, past the tall strands
of wild grass, trees and shrubs that have grown up there,
and are rarely trimmed back. I pause and peer
through the branches, twigs, and shadows, waiting
to see if a car, or bicyclist might come racing past.
And there we hesitate, like birds poised on
the edge of flight, lifting and cocking their heads
to gaze into the sky the moment before
raising their wings for the long trip south.
“Yes,” I might say, or, “Wait,” while a
slender-legged deer rounds the bend
and trots past. All our journeys, into town
or half way round the world hinge
on the trust inside those words.