Alternate Routes

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Growing up in Alaska, August for me signified hunting trips
and wilderness excursions.
August, for me - regardless of lower-forty-eight designations -
was the door into autumn.
On a rainy August day,
I find myself revisiting
one of my earlier poems.

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6 AM: Alternate Route

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I do not intend to
startle crows sipping
from asphalt fountains,

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but I drive flat out,
fueled by high octane and low clouds,
glimpsing the six of memory in rear-view glass,
siting along a metal fin,
in such brief reverie
I cannot find a bullet faster
than time,
or a final proof
for gravity.