That Stretch Between Stanford and Eddie’s Corner
We climb back inside the ’66 Electra of seafoam
green with bench seats and wing windows
cranked open in the heat. We cruise past
barley and hay, barley and alfalfa. How far
can we see, how far can we see nothing,
I ask. Fifty or sixty, my sister replies, just
as we drive by the one thing there is
to see, a birdhouse nailed
to a gnarled fence post, we can see for fifty or sixty lives.
Where would the bird have come from that might be
in that house? Our brother is quiet when he responds—
he’ll think on this once we get back to town.