I had left my friends exhausted by conversation
and good will to walk the gravel road home at night.
I heard the chatter of tire-tossed rocks in the distance.
I moved toward the ditch and raised my thumb.
A car approached and a car went by.
Pine needles whispered, scything the air,
cutting down the wheat of the yard lamps.
I skated happily on gravel toward home.
Befriended by trees that could not speak,
how could I know, then, life would turn like this,
the beckoning of a road without furthering light,
the tug of communion with others like a rope
tied to the pier once taut, then slacking,
that friends extend and woods bring back.
Jeff Burt lives in California with his wife, floods, drought, earthquakes, and forest fires. He has contributed to Williwaw Journal, Willows Wept Review, and Sheila-Na-Gig, among others. www.jeff-burt.com/