On an upper peninsula drive

Sun drenches waves of grass

a river cuts through

on the banks, cottonwoods

seeds migrate like drifting snow,

carried on a restless breeze.

spun tufts give way to wings.

A lone Sandhill crane glides past —

no, now ten of them,

already in the next field

red crowns flickering

over the grassy sea,

where are they headed? Farther north?

On the other side

a steel beast thundering by

on parallel rails,

boxcars migrate beside us,

slicing their man-made line through the green waves:

river, road, rail, meridian.

At the horizon,

tracks, highway, and oasis vanish together

into the promise of somewhere new —

hundreds of miles still ahead.

how long will seeds, cranes, water, and boxcars

journey beside us?

My hope: all the way.