On my way north,
once again, Highway E curves
into a 25 mph crawl
past a post office and a closed
taxidermy shop, toward
the county building that
was once my elementary school
that now holds snowplows.
A hawk flies low
over the road
toward the sun setting nearly
in the south –
so close that I can see
two little mouse feet
dangling from its talons.
Really, a dire situation for the mouse,
(or maybe it’s a mole or a chipmunk,
interchangeable in the gold slanting light
that is all that saves November)
but all I can think of is that
creature
suddenly plucked from its path
across a bone-cold cornfield
and borne like a god into the sky,
sailing above the farms and creeks
and hunters and herds of deer
seeing all at once
how very small
it all is
how very grand
it all is
how it’s nothing like it ever knew,
wondering how to put it into words
when it gets back home,
the black silhouette of the trees
coming now
so, so close.
Halfway North 