1.
Looking both ways as I cross the icy creek.
Shifting and realizing my back hasn’t hurt all day.
Stepping out the back door: the car gone,
the driveway empty, the house empty.
2.
Once I was a speck of light–no, I saw
in the shimmery mist a host of lights
that did not burn or cease to burn.
I went back to my wife, my children,
told them nothing. Now I only want
to spin skeins of sound from the old guitar,
sift and sort for some new music,
some tune old as Jesus, young as Jesus.
3.
That night something came flying,
a gift in the shape of a cardinal or a crow,
sharp in the shadowy darkness,
soundless except for the rumor of wings.
I woke into my life, rose and dressed
like a criminal whose crime has been forgotten.
4.
The last high dive in Ohio has been torn down.
The backup battery is fully charged.
That station are bursting with gasoline,
dozens of drink options, heat lamp pizza.
The roads out of town are clear in all directions.