Pipeline, Verse 52

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Saturday morning.
The roar of the rapids as loud as the drizzle is soft.
Wanderers in slickers flick past,
fingers numb, barely looking.
Oh but you can see them,
the Great Blues, hopping
lonesomely from stone to stone
amid the rush of white water,
nests cold and dizzying and far.
Overhead, there is no rumble.
The tracks stand sad sentinel, drip
down to the worn pages
where Walt marks his yawp,
there, under the trestles,
above the river and the wastewater and the burnt-
out campfires, unrivaled in the rain.

i, too, am not a bit tamed

feed me the sunset
in ribbons of road,
the cost of freedom
in miles per gallon
regular unleaded, dirt-
streaked windows
down and bare-
headed, chewing on
possibilities and loose
strands of hair.  one foot
on the pedal, the other
on the dash, left arm out
in the wind of eleven miles over,
just this side of reckless.