The Road

We were surprised how quickly the sun

had climbed the morning sky.

It had been a long time

since the road had songs

of birds whistling and children humming. Sweat ran

down my cheeks onto the road.

Rust had formed on the bikes the children rode.

They toiled under the midday sun,

ignoring us until one of them ran

to me, looking up as if my head were the sky.

She asked about the songs

I sang to pass the time.

I smiled and said they help sometimes,

a break from the endless road.

I didn’t tell her they were songs

my ancestors had taught their sons,

chants to the earth and the sky

that would protect me wherever I ran.

On the left a polluted stream ran

next to the road. It was time

we stopped for rest, the clouded sky

a brief reprieve from the road

and the burning sun.

We heard nothing but the water’s song,

a dirty tune so unlike our songs.

Soon my comrade ran

ahead to scout the land. He was the son

of an old friend of mine who ran out of time,

so he wasn’t on the road

anymore. I sometimes see him in the sky.

Night encroached, and fire-colors streaked the sky.

My comrade and I joined in song,

pausing before the bend in the road.

We were indifferent to where it ran

so long as we still had time

to sing. We lay down under the setting sun.

Now the sky had completely consumed the sun

and cut its song short. Time now

ran as our enemy on this endless road.