The branches are fallen and stayed along the way.
Wood wrought and the dirt road–
same as it ever was–
In a quarter-mile it rises,
Through a break in the trees,
where rusted tracks frame its edge
as if without purpose.
The seed of an orange flame
taps at the window–
Our distant evening fire.
But my purpose is north
past the cottage and into the strait grey light of horizon.
A crack and then the peppered sparrow–