The grass is drained of summer’s colors,
brush blown wild in impressionist whorls.
I miss the valley;
its buzz of humanity,
the whistle of passing cars.
Here, the empty roads are
skeins of inky hair
winding miles to cities elsewhere.
I could safely lay my cheek to asphalt.
Listen to the hills echoing for hours,
But the night
when it comes low and swift
lifts its blue black arms,
shatters me with stars,
and I am consumed by radiance.