No signs beyond the warning,
‘Primitive Road,’
In the big wide open
Of high plains, fields of wheat
And soon-to-be-planted earth.
Something begged me to know
The hum of this road,
Her closed whispers
At a slow-measured-pace,
Alongside tufts of grain
And dust-devils
Toward the crest of another knoll.
My shirt flags the color of sunset.
In the silence of clouds
No direction known
Or wanted.
You found me again with, “Hello.”
Gary Ibsen
April 23, 2019
Photo: ‘Primitive Road’ by Dagma Lacey
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