David Feela

The last time I checked

moonlight glazed the desert white.

I tapped out an informal Morse code

against the steering wheel

there at the side of the road,

but nothing was wrong.

I had stopped, shut the engine off

and opened my windows

to hear the tick of the cooling earth.

In the matrix of destiny

I was both on my way and not

trying anymore, my lungs

emptied then refreshed

like spring water issuing from the ground

with no more purpose than to

wash the bedrock clean.

Of the shadows around me

some shaped themselves

into hogans where the faint stars

sat in their ancient circles

listening, listening.