We keep coming back to our animals.
Miles crunched in the wheels' teeth,
grassy hide of the highway shoulders,
some kind of breath resisting the windshield.


The road doesn't insist upon a name,
but we insist upon calling it
something. It comes -- no,
it arrives or almost delivers us.


The heat turned down before we leave
because the house left behind
is like the proverbial falling tree:
practically nonexistent in our absence.
The fish is frozen in its bowl;
the dog is lonely; a blizzard
is approaching, too cold to even growl.

Andrea Defoe