Bivouac Between Billboards

That's what happens when you
sit down suddenly
with the prospect of rest:
you grow rooted, content to sway
on some other traveler's horizon
where the clouds are riding and soon
a season's leaves, even the birds
gone one day—

Little sister,
watching you speak solemnly
to your children, I grow homesick
for my own unborn ones and the nest
of summer grasses I may never weave

Here on this hump
scraped up by bulldozers, camped
in the eclipse of shadows
between two towering floodlit billboards,
I lean out with the high limbs
of the trees along my highway,
reconnoitering by the dance
of my candleflame

Small winds close to the earth
speak to me now that I
crouch among them,
they want me to carry messages
to the tops of mountains

The evergreens are turning brown
The cars go by crooning the song of
sleeping nations
The crickets sing their spells for dawn
Even the crow thinks he's singing!
Pouring the wax out of the candle,
I begin