Rest Stop

A curl of a lake rests in the valley
Where the cars come rushing by
Displays a permanence unknown
In the metal boxes of the road

The cry of the hawk, the cicada hum
The burr balls of the sweet gum
The witchy branches of the pine
The smell of honeysuckle on the air

This is America, this is the world
Not the rushing metal dream
But the gray speckle of the oak bark
And the eyes of the hidden creatures.