No one ever sees these moving confessionals while easing into the stream of traffic, windows rolled up: body enveloped in metal, safety-strapped into its seat, ferrying itself from one small destination to another. Chip of mica, bronzed, pearled: early sunlight glancing off the hood. I can’t remember when I started talking to myself, behind the wheel. If suddenly I should moan, or rail, or even sob, it isn’t from the press and interchange of vehicles along the unremitting stretch of road. Do I say Deliver me? I don’t know who or what I address; these are speeches, perhaps prayers, meant for no one’s ears. Unpolished stone, this voice only wants to hurl itself clear across the gap. Stepping along the water’s edge, white slips of wading birds are lithe; skittish as rumors, they fold back— mountain and valley, origami against the sky.


In response to cold mountain (53).

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