pastoral

There’s a spot on the interstate
Between Denver and way out here
Where not a single vestige
Of man exists
Not a fencepost, phone pole, haystack
I get an awful  chill there
I feel so utterly alone
Forgotten, hollow.
ridiculously claustrophobic 
In my blue jet.
I’m grateful to see the 
Grain bins emerging 
On the horizon.

Rachelli says that spot
Brings her the most hope
She sighs there every week
For a moment
Lost in an ancient time

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