pecan groves outside of Lafayette,
the pine woods north of Spokane,
the field by my house where the snow piled deep,
where a snow owl passed so silently and low
it changed my idea of ghosts—
now they're stores,
and neighborhoods named after trees,
and spillover parking for a church,
and maybe the choir sings hymns so beautifully
it's fine; I'll call it the future, agree that it's bright.
But west of Washtucna, Washington,
the highway stretches through the dark...