Читать книгу No Gathering In of this Incense - Mark Rhoads - Страница 6

Our old Chevy had no radio,

no conditioned air, no seatbelts

to tie you down; so I would spread my arms

to rise out over the treeless hills,

top the pungent sage and rippling wheat,

then swoop back over the rocketing hood,

glance back into the divided glass

to see my determined mother,

my father commanding the wheel,

hell-bent for Ritzville.

My music in those generous days

was the drone of the straight six below me

the flutter of hot wind in my boyish ears,

a clattering escort of grasshoppers,

a meadowlark singing out a claim

to a fencepost.