The four of us crowded into the cabin,
papaw’s truck half rust and rawhide
steering wheel cover. On the floor, remnants
of hay. Smells of Big Red gum and Aussie hairspray.
When the tape-deck-slash-clock-radio broke,
we began to sing the country gospel–
Will the Circle Be Unbroken? Will the chariot
ever swing low? For years, our erstaz quartet
practiced harmony–memaw’s treble tremble
and us kids yelping, papaw’s strong undercurrent 
bass. On the highway, dark lines ahead, heat
mirages–reflections of black space on asphalt–
the blue sky an illusion we ran over, passed
through, singing on our way to somewhere.