four hundred miles
to drive tomorrow
whispering poetry
i cannot transcribe
to the hawks
circling high above

a hermit
carefully wrapped
in the vestiges of
silence
hurtling across
texas at a
hundred miles per hour
racing to get back
to the nothing
that always
patiently
awaits him at home

dreading both
the leaving
and the return
vibrating
with sorrows
i am here yet
i am already gone