I-5 to Ashland

A rented Plymouth

vessel apt for pilgrimage to bedrock,

the route well charted ­

no need for the navigator

who crossed with me before.

This time I travel alone

in a laboratory on wheels,

reaching for the tape recorder

solitude's container

on the pilgrimage led by the Oregon hawk.

My thought hovers over the hood like radar,

sensitive as a wound,

a kind of eye above

that places one in traffic.

The highway imparts an apparent unanimity,

a unity like faith leading to Los Angeles,

a gingerly shared elliptical orbit:

one single-occupancy vehicle

one drop in the river road

crossing Battle Creeks and Mill Creeks.

We strain abreast into banked curves,

leaning across the land, across the wind,

with all cargo tilted,

apparatus sprung over the hillside.

The courtesy of Darwin:

by wary and graceful selections

the slow yield to the swift:

slower traffic keep right,

keep right except to pass.

I was right, I am left, love passes,

I travel in the lane.

At Scio I know

I've come halfway

more than halfway

to where I go.