I saw you from the highway
(maybe you saw my car,
an expensive bubble of different
air heated to sixty-eight,
screaming past at seventy-four:
all engine noise, aerodynamics,
synthetic rubber on asphalt)—
you paused
on the farmhouse porch,
sized up the winter chill, then
turning to your barn, I saw
your resolute march
into snow and frozen air,
the highway one dull roar
behind you nearby,
an audience taking in
your pastoral silhouettes.
December 2020
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