Livingston Range

Tired, too wired to sleep
bathed in the green glow
of the '65 Chevy's gauges
I thread dim back streets
to the town's boundaries
shift up into road gear
drive a dark rising highway
from the prairie flatlands
through sleeping foothills
slowing only for streetlamps
through small silent towns
then winding back up into black again
hypnotised by gears, wheels and wind
humming subtle complex harmonies with
the single dashboard speaker drawling
rock oldies and hardcore country
from all-night AM trucker stations
in Salt Lake, Flagstaff and Denver
dangling me loose on the ends of
their twisted electric filaments
strung through random static
bursting from atmospheric upsets
over the wide unseen horizon,
climbing until I edge, finally
onto the top of the high escarpment
rolling west up into the Livingston Range
and as dew begins to fall heavy onto
ripening wheat and barley fields
I taste the pale yellow scent
vital in my throat
heady as freedom,
sharp as regret,
stare out at
thinly scattered farm yardlights
blending seamless up into
the dark spread of distant stars.

It is all important, now.
and I think it always will be,
staying sharp as the smell
of the high summer dew,
but I don't quite yet realize
that the things that I look for
on those tranced cat-eyed drives
aren't in the words to the music
but in the distant static bursts
and between them
lightning unseen
over a hidden horizon.