The drive to Monte Bello can be a lonely one,
particularly on a misty and grey morning,
and one can forget there is any other life in the world sometimes;
you’re alone amidst the slowly swaying trees,
quietly serenaded by the murmuring patter of raindrops on the windshield,
each hard turn of the narrow, twisting road felt in every muscle of your body.
You’re alive to the climate, despite the enclosure of the car;
with the windows open, the outdoor temperature and yours
seem to calibrate to one another, and in your mind,
the line between yourself and nature around you
is shimmeringly dissipated, then gone. This is solitude.
Then suddenly, the feeling that you’re being watched. By whom?
A quick flicker at the corner of your eye;
was it illusion, tick of a nerve, or movement?
You pull to the side and breathe, slowly letting the window down,
disregarding the rivulets of water traversing the inside of your door,
the pocks of moisture dissolving on your sleeve.
You look, eyes straining through the suddenly breaking mist. There!
Run now, you. Don’t stare at cars, move from them,
move with that languidly fleet-footed rollicking trot of yours,
go back to the trees, down the gulley, into the shadows.
Lest we meet again, I am the one with the black-frame glasses,
and you, you are the one with the two pale patches on your back.