The baking two lane blacktop stretches
to a point on the still horizon
where progress toward the distant mountains
is imperceptible at speed
In a trick of lazy geometry
on-coming trucks don’t seem to rush
they just grow slowly larger
then pass in a blast of turbulence
No curves from here to a far off rise
miles of scrub and ocotillo
hawks and silent emptiness
of a single cabin by a wash
and the crosses and dried flowers
that mark passing of miles and time
So Cal Yankee 