and i hope they chirp tomorrow

somewhere in the midwest,
harvested and brown,
the air drowned us
at 75
miles per, some hour
before the afternoon

sharpened eyes in the corners
of rear view mirrors
bit down on the silence of the road
having its way with the rubber

and we lacked speech
while we sorted out the words
that had just spilled across the interstate

and the next day,
the birds chirped
as well as the day after that





wb