A tepid breeze brushed stalks
Of wheat. My car sputtered as hills
Rolled by, alvoces of mountain walks
Carved in fields, grass like dollar bills.
A diesel trail rose from the exhaust
before I parked. A single street
Hosted a market and fences of lost
Livestock and signs: “2 miles, meat,
7 miles, Williamsport.” Not a soul
Roamed the village, tucked inside
Their homesteads, as I stole
A glance at a horse’s lustrous hide.
Grain passed by as I headed home.
My tank nearly empty, I stomped the pedal
as the breeze carried dandelion seeds, blown
and landing in the shade of another’s petal.
The Tributary 