A Ride Down An Indiana Highway

Peter Braddock

we pass yellowing farmlands and orange rivers,
kitchen lights dotting the fields like stars.
Nothing but pure air and open road.

I can feel it, the earth,
the way R.B. showed me.
The interstellar power running through the world.

Southern songs softly twang and hum
beside the crickets and cicadas. My
muscles relax and chill thinking
about memory—eyes wider awake
in the face of ancient kodachrome
reels cycling over, and over.