Sabine River Bridge

the purpleshade of night
lingers, yet will soon pass. . . .
the early morning cars
whiz by, hanging onto the road
with their glaring headlights. . . .
the bridger over Interstate Twenty
is a plumcolored ribbon. . . .
the two runners
glance at the traffic below,
content to leave it behind
down the grade to the tracks
where great Missouri Pacific trains
once rolled in clanging pandemionium. . . .
now they jog along the line of a fence
that separates them from a herd of Red cattle
chewing their August cuds
and dumbly staring as we pass. . . .
finally the river bridge and a secret jug of water
now the long hill home is our reward.

8-30-84