back roads to gatesville

it was approximately
the dead center of
nowhere when i realized
if i didn’t piss soon
there would be a mess
as each little town
blurred past with nary
a gas station in sight
i finally turned down
an old gravel road and
parked beneath an old oak
where i let loose a
shower the same shade as
the tall grass blocking
me from the view of
the pickups cruising
down the backroads

as i stood making a
foamy puddle in the dry
red tinged dirt among
the thick roots of
the ancient hunched oak
i watched the hawks
swoop down in a blur
a rustle in the sallow
field and a burst back
a diver breaking the
surface with a mouse
clutched in its mighty
looking hooked talons
again and again the
feathered raptors
divebombed the sea of
golden waves of stalks
ferocious hunters that
could detect the motion
in ceaseless swaying
as i stood pissing in awe

a leisurely drive down
the country roads to
sleepy gatesville where
the biggest building
is the corrections facility
bound with razor wire
in a less than friendly
southern sense of hospitality
gravel dust on my vans
and the image of hawks
hurtling themselves in
a terminal velocity at
the field mice chittering
in yellowed ocean of grass
hoping to have time to
pet the baby goats before
driving back to dallas
and maybe stop at the
museum proclaiming the
largest collection of
authentic spurs in texas


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