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.