during the summer in an old cemetery
under thick shade of tulip poplars,
trunks six feet wide, windows down,
calls of crow, cardinal, mourning dove,
robin, red-winged blackbird. Or under
a sycamore when a cool breeze
from the lake reaches you, or the whoosh
of a goose flapping its wings.  

Or in January cold, when sun through windows
heats the air around you, and the seat hugs
your back. You close your eyes a moment,
open to see ducks perched on a frozen, snow-
covered lake, a melted patch spreading
around them like a shadow.  

Why is it so satisfying to sit snug
in your vehicle’s silence,
and to break it to read aloud
a breathtaking passage,
letting your voice fill the space.
Or glance up to view the vast, flat
horizon pierced by gravestones,
let contentment settle into you
like a haunting melody.