roadway during golden hour

The mists rose from patches of pines

like prayer incense rising, disappearing    

as words thinned and the burden

of the prayers dissolved until there 

was only the scent of pine and the air

was cleared for response.  It took all

day for the answers to appear.  Hours

of driving in the congestion of speed 

and slow downs, of cars and trucks 

and semis feet from front and back

bumpers and then that thinned some 

two hours from home as I drove west

into the grandeur of the sunset –

mauve clouds with gray underlings,

pink patches mixed with wisps 

of white, the sun slipping behind 

the clouds in that evening glow of gold

and felt the answers to the unspeakable

morning prayers and knew I’d soon be home.

hootism:  it’s not a matter of looking, it’s a matter of seeing.