A dark gray ribbon organized the land,
an asphalt arrow to the eastern pass,
dividing pumice into field and strand,
and making shoulders in the desert grass.
The moon hung heavy silver on our right;
it striped the road with puddles soft and black,
that blended in its dips all tones of night
until our headlights chased the shadows back.
We can’t believe the heat mirage of day
that punctuates the road with phantom pools.
Now desert moon deludes our eyes to play
a shadow trick, for human eyes are tools
to testify and yet to be deceived
by images so instantly believed.
Cutterpub 