I heard the semis on the turnpike

off and on through the night hum

like angels humming the blues

of crucifixion slipping into that hymn

of resurrection before predawn.

The lights in the parking lot the only

moon and stars. I hear, “what beast slouches

towards Bethlehem?” That story told

in five words in the inevitable rise

and fall and rise again caught in the word

Easter — “We have our inheritance.”

I’m in The Laurel Highlands, the mountains

are still dark, horizon unseen until

the sunrise as if every day is Easter morning.