The Greatest Things

The Honda struggles through the pass
dropped down into second it whines in protest
of the thin air that feeds its engine.

Headlights run shadows down the road
and I cycle songs through the stereo.

Lonely and red eyed,
tail lights pass into the dark.

Small mountain towns.
Though some larger than others,
at two in the morning they all sleep
and sound the same.

Quiet clicks and
credit card slides.
The smell of petrol in damp air.

***

Out again,
in the amber evening’s
chain warnings.

Past ancient RV parks
huddled along the highway
burning tires and wet aspen for warmth.

We haunt their camps
 —the specter of self-entitled adult teenagers
climbing up into the mountains
to writhe wet and naked in the wilderness
pressing mud into our palms
painting on rocks
and taking plenty of pictures.

Down and down,
engine braking and
twisting the transmission.

And, at ten thousand feet
Avon appears an ideal
Candle lit
and longing.